


The Music Man

by whataterrificaudience



Category: South Park, The Music Man
Genre: AU, Comedy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Slow Burn, Yeah Baby, get ready i get to tag this as it finally, gregstophe, im trying okay, south park - Freeform, sp gregstophe, sp style, stankyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-05 00:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 84,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15852270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whataterrificaudience/pseuds/whataterrificaudience
Summary: Traveling salesman and con-man Christophe (“Professeur Taupe”) has selected River City, Iowa, as his next victim. At first the challenge is almost too easy, until he stumbles upon the local librarian. He intends to leave and collect the money after four weeks, but librarian and music teacher Gregory Thorne wedges him right between a rock and a hard place.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO!! let me just say that this is the first fic ive ever sat down and worked on seriously. that being said, PLEASE give me feedback! this is a big step from writing little stories on wattpad in 2014, and i want to improve as much as possible! ANYWAY! this is based entirely off of the musical and movie “The Music Man” with quite a few liberties taken, of course. it’s a great musical with a fantastic soundtrack that i encourage everyone to listen to! please enjoy!!

“All aboard!”

The conductor let out a bellow as he stuffed his watch in his coat pocket. Preparing to board the train, he found himself being shoved out of the way in favor of a rather portly man sporting an obnoxiously large briefcase. He appeared winded and his brown eyebrows were knitted together in a crazed scowl. He threw himself aboard the train and the conductor, recovering, followed suit hastily.

The portly man had been chased by a gang of men who ambled on after him, greeted by the train door slamming in their faces. One of the men reached out to pry it open but was subdued by another who groused “Let him go, Skeeter. I guess we made it plain we don’t want no more travelin’ salesmen in Brighton.” The men exchanged apprehensive glances thinly covered with malice, but retreated away regardless.

The train cabin was filled with a large quantity of men, all of them seemingly identical at a curt glance. Bulky suitcases with loud lettering painted on the face, flashy suits and barber shop hats, and each with an eye for money. The portly man stumbled to an open seat as his fellow con-men carried on various conversations.

“Credit is no good for an ocean salesman,” someone was saying to a scrawny crony.

“How far you goin’, friend?” Another was asking. He was huddled in a group of four, playing what appeared to be a rather intense game of cards. His expression melted away from confidence to revelation as a stack of money was taken away from him. The man sitting across from him eyed his newfound stack of cash while replying in a raspy, smug drawl topped off with a thick French accent, “Where the people are as green as the money, friend.”

“What’s the matter with credit?” A mousey haired, rather scrawny man replied elsewhere.

“It’s old fashioned! Eric,” he turned to the winded portly man who was stripping off his suit jacket, “you’re an anvil salesman. Your firm give credit?”

Eric gave a scowl as he huffed a short breath, folding his jacket over his arm. “No sir,” he declared rather boisterously. He was a man who did not shy away from attention if he could help it.

“Nor anybody else,” his companion announced matter of factly.

“River City, next station’s stop,” the conductor announced as he ambled into the cabin. “River City Iowa.” He pronounced Iowa peculiarly, adding an extra “y” so it sounded like “Eye-oh-way”.

As soon as he finished his sentence, the train jerked forward immediately, causing the passengers to be thrown forward against the back of the seat in front of them. The sound of newspapers crushing beneath bodies and loud curses and mutterings grew dimmer as the sound of steam and wheels churning amplified.

“Cash for the merchandise,” the man with a particular disdain against credit chanted bitterly, accentuating the “cash” rather profoundly. “Cash for the button-hooks.”

“Cash for the cotton goods, cash for the hard goods.” Another salesman joined in, turning around. More and more salesman drew their attention away from the headlines scrawled across their newspapers as they lended their attention and hearing to the new commotion.

“Cash for the fancy goods, cash for the soft goods.”

“Cash for the noggins and the piggins and the frikins.”

“Cash for the hoghead, cask and demijohn. Cash for the crackers and the pickles and the flypaper.”

The salesman were all beginning to alternate and each lend their two cents, until one man in the corner put down his paper and bantered exasperatedly “Look, whaddya talk, whaddya talk, whaddya talk, whaddya talk, whaddya talk, whaddya talk?”

“Were’d ya get it?” Another answered inquisitively.

“Whaddya talk!?”

“You can talk, you can talk, you can bicker, you can talk. You can bicker, bicker, bicker, you can talk, you can talk, you can talk, talk, talk, talk, bicker, bicker, bicker, you can talk all you wanna but it’s different than it was!” The Credit Scorner spat. Each of the salesmen’s banters were picking up speed, now becoming a flurry of words that somehow still managed to be heard crisply. The churning of the train wells seemed to pose as a baseline for their repartee.

“No it ain’t, no it ain’t, but you gotta know the territory!”

“Shh, shh, shh, shh, shh, shh, shh,” one salesman shushed, and whether it was accidental or not, imitated the sound of the steam emitting from the train whistle.

“Why it’s the Model T. Ford made the trouble, made the people wanna go, wanna get, wanna get up and go. Seven eight, nine ten twelve fourteen, twenty two, twenty three to the miles city county seat.”

“Yes sir, yes sir.”

“Who’s gonna patronize a little bitty two by four kinda store anymore?”

“Whaddya talk, whaddya talk?”

“Where’d ya get it?”

“Gone, gone!”

The debate turned tuneless song was growing more and more heated as more contributed to the bickering, each man itching to have his voice heard.

“Gone with the hogshead cask and demijohn, gone with the sugar barrel, pickle barrel, milk pan. Gone with the tub and the pail and the tierce.”

“Ever meet a fella by the name of Taupe?” One man piped up. Instantly, one man after the other repeated his name in confusion. A chorus of “Taupe?”’s flooded the cabin. Then,

“NO!”

“Just a minute, just a minute, just a minute!”

“Never heard of any salesman, Taupe.”

“Now he doesn’t know the territory.”

“Doesn’t know the territory??”

“What’s the fella’s line?”

“Never worries ‘bout his line or a doggone thing. He’s just a bang-beat, bell ringin’, big haul, great go, neck-or-nothing, rip roarin’ every time a bull’s eye salesman, that Professor Taupe, Professor Taupe.”

“What’s the fellow’s line, what’s his line?”

“He’s a fake and he doesn’t know the territory!”

“Look, whaddya talk, whaddya talk, whaddya talk, whaddya talk?”

“He’s a music man.”

“He’s a what?”

“He’s a what?”

“He’s a music man, and he sells clarinets to the kids in the town with the big trombones and the rat-a-tat drums. Big brass bass, big brass bass, and the piccolo, the piccolo, with the uniforms too, with a shiny gold braid on the coat and a big red stripe runnin’.”

Many looks of scorn and contempt were now being exchanged throughout the cabin as the men wondered how a man could make a living off of such an asinine schtick.

“Well, I don’t know much about bands, but I do know you can’t make a livin’ selling big trombones, no sir. Mandolin picks? Perhaps, and here and there a harp...”

“No, the fella sells bands, boys bands. I don’t know how he does it, but he lives like a king and he dallies and he gathers and he plucks and shines and when the man dances, certainly boys, what else? The piper pays HIM! Yes sir! Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Yes... sir! When the man dances, certainly boys, what else? The piper pays HIM!”

All together, every man lended his voice into a long, slurred hiss.

“Yessssssssir... yessssssssir.”

As the train lurched to a screeching halt, Eric stood up briskly and threw his coat down on the seat, causing the loud slap of fiber against plastic to reverberate and blend with the sound of screeching tires. “BUT HE DOESN’T KNOW THE TERRITORY!” He cried in an anguished scream.

“River City, station stop, River City.” the conductor announced, ambling through the crowd of salesman who had once again been lurched forward and discombobulated. “Just crossed the state line into Ioway, population, River City, twenty-two hundred and twelve. Cigarettes are illegal in this state,” he added, regarding Eric who had been rolling some tobacco. He glowered at the conductor before flicking it out of his hand with a gusty sigh, scowling, not too far from being reminiscent of a pouting toddler. “Boooart!”

“Alright, if you’re all through, I’ll tell you about Professor Taupe,” Eric declared, glaring at the cronies as if he were eyeing his dinner rather than about to give a lecture.

“Say,” someone drawled, pointing a finger at him, “you know Taupe?”

Eric scoffed, narrowing his eyes. The audacity of some people. “I never saw him in my life,” he said, in a tone that made it sound as if it was his greatest accomplishment yet. “But I’ve just been run out of town because of Taupe.” He motioned to his audience, the hatred in his eagle eyes growing more and more prominent with each syllable he spewed. “He’s given every one of us a black eye! You go into town and call on the trades and they’re sittin’ there, waitin’ for ya with tar and feathers to ride you out on a rail!”

The Credit Scorner rose abruptly, his turn to counter. “How’d’ya count for a thing like that?”

“It’s this Taupe!” As much as Eric loved to hog the spotlight, he was not well suited for whatever objections lie in the shadows. He was often unpredictable and held the potential to lash out at random, often to hide his own insecurities. He would only dig himself deeper into a hole when he suspected people were aware of his vulnerabilities as well.

Now, a subtle hint of desperation flossed at his tone as he glared daggers and puffed out his chin.

“He goes around selling band instruments and uniforms and instruction books,” he continued, and began to pace the aisle, counting off on his pudgy fingers, all the while looking at each man that came in contact with his peripheral vision, “by guaranteeing to teach the kids to play.”

“Stands to reason,” one man drawled.

“And organize the kids into a band,” he spat, pointing a finger at the back of his head as if it were some sort of weapon, “and with himself as the leader.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Credit Scorner dared to ask.

“He DOESN’T KNOW ONE NOTE FROM ANOTHER!”

That was the straw that broke the camels back. Eric pushed himself in front of Credit Scorner, his pudgy face beginning to turn red at the cheeks. A rise of chuckles began to rumble throughout the cabin as he continued to scream desperately, “THAT’S WHAT’S WRONG WITH THAT! HE DOESN’T KNOW A BASS DRUM FROM A PIPE ORGAN!”

He made his way up the aisle again, pointing fingers and shaking fists, “He’s a bear-faced, double shuffle, two bit thimble-rigger! And I’m gonna catch up with him one of these days,” he announced, his tone quieter and sliding into the super-villain smooth façade, “but I knew I’m gonna have the law on him so quick.”

Expressions of confusion and stifled guffaws continued to trickle through the cabin as not one man took a symbol of his word seriously.

“Territory is tough enough without him,” he continued, either not sensing the clue that little were paying him any mind, or not caring.

“I sure would like to be around when you catch up with him,” someone snickered, shaking his head.

“I’m not gonna have to catch up with him in Iowa,” he retorted, adding emphasis on “Iowa” to indicate his apparent contempt, “not on your kidney, Stoley. He’s too smart to fool that flim-flam out here. Not on these neck-bowed hawk eyes.”

All of the sudden, a man sitting at the front of the cabin stood up, reaching for his briefcase. He was on the short side and rather prominent strands of unkempt, dirt brown hair protruded from beneath his hat. He announced, in his rough voice coated heavily with a thick French accent, not making eye contact with anyone, “Gentlemen, you intrigue me. I think I will have to give Iowa a try.”

The train whistle answered to his announcement as Eric strolled up to him, scrunching his nose. “I don’t believe I caught your name,” he observed. The man straightened up and returned his glance, as if he were analyzing a document. He tended to have a habit of waiting for a more elaborate answer when there was none.

“I don’t believe I’ve dropped it,” he answered, and flashed his briefcase at him. Painted on the briefcase in large white letters were the words “PROF. TAUPE”.

Taupe flashed a grin as he scurried off of the cabin while Eric ogled at him, bewildered, before pointing at him and opening his mouth, looking at everyone else as if he were pleading for help. The salesman exchanged open mouthed stares and hesitated before piling to the windows.

Taupe waved back to them as the train started to chug its way to its fateful destination that would lie ahead. Nobody said anything - that is, until Eric slid one of the windows open and began to shout at him. Taupe silenced him by raising his hat in reply. Eric preceded to throw his hat out of the window and down onto the pavement. The train began to grow smaller as Taupe gave one last wave and a farewell shit eating grin before running off into his next domain.

While Taupe excelled in managing to adapt to his surroundings rather quickly, the first day in a new town remained rather difficult in terms of navigation. The navigation was not limited to getting ones bearings and finding directions, but discovering the type of people and how they lived their lives and what appealed to them and what did not. A man with thinning gray hair and glasses walked by, and Taupe swiftly caught up to him and stopped him.

“Ah, sir-“

The man shook his head after regarding him like stale bread and walked on his merry way as if nothing had happened. Taupe glared at him and swallowed down some obscenities: while he had a reputation to uphold, he had a tendency to allow his anger to get to the best of him. He did not shy away from telling people what he thought, but unfortunately being a con-man connoisseur demanded that he keep his thoughts to himself.

Shrugging, he approached a man who appeared to be a rancher. He had straggly hair and a small mustache and he stood next to his horse who was lazily drinking out of a barrel of water. The weather in River City did seem to be considerably warmer than what he was accustomed to, which was the harsh climate of the mountains.

“Fine looking animal,” he observed, attempting to make small talk without hinting at his perception that he was wasting his time.

Of course, the rancher looked back at him as if he had a mushroom growing out of his nostrils. “For a horse, yeah,” he replied in a voice that sounded too much like a prepubescent teenager’s.

Recognizing the cue that any future attempts at conversation were futile, Taupe nodded and tipped his hat awkwardly, fighting a scowl. He walked up a dirt path, spotting yet another farmer tilling some dirt. In fact, the whole pathetic town seems to be filled with dirt and dust. Some particularly unstable looking wooden buildings surveyed the citizens who moseyed along their seemingly uneventful lives. The place was desolate, and Taupe found himself hoping the whole entire town didn’t look like this. He appreciated a good challenge, and this town seemed insultingly easy.

“Good morning, neighbor,” he greeted, touching the brim of his hat, “could you kindly direct me? Which way is the center of town?”

There was a pause as the farmer put down his gardening hoe rather begrudgingly before inspecting Taupe’s outfit. His neatly pressed brown suit provided quite the contrast with the farmer’s faded, dirt caked overalls. Taupe must have passed the inspection, because he answered indifferently, “Runs right down the middle of the street”.

There seemed to be no street at all, and Taupe gestured to the dirt path, but the farmer dismissively began to preoccupy himself with his tilling again, and so Taupe bitterly tipped his hat before striding away. The residents seemed to be rather stubborn, which would provide an interesting challenge, but Taupe too was notoriously stubborn and did not appreciate seeing himself reflected among these pissant back water farmers.

However, the farmer was right. As he ventured forward, the dirt gave way to pavement and more buildings loomed overhead. People strolled about on the sidewalk, while horses drew their passengers along.

One carriage managed to catch Taupe’s vision as he watched it haul away a particularly large wooden crate. Upon closer inspection, written in black letters upon a giant slab of wood were the words “POOL TABLE”. Apparently it must have been quite the prized possession, as the font was alarmingly loud and seemed to pose as a gloat.

One presumed shopkeeper was arranging two American flags outside of a storefront, as Taupe began to approach him before giving the pool table carriage one last prolonged glance. He caught himself staring and walked on as the shopkeeper began to walk away. “Excuse me, friend,” Taupe interrupted one man who was raising an American flag. “Where would I find a good hotel?”

As expected, the man glared at him before responding with a grimace, “Try the Palmer House in Chicago.”

Evidently, these folks did not take kindly to new faces. Taupe glared at him before continuing forth, practically feeling his patience wear thin. He understood it, sympathizing with these people who found that shitting rainbows was not an ideal introduction. More often than not, it was a nuisance. And yet, these people couldn’t even be bothered to crank out a fake smile for 6 seconds?

In the midst of his inner monologuing, Taupe failed to realize that he had a growing audience follow behind him. More and more people joined in, like a row of ducklings cluelessly teetering after their mother. He paused as he noticed one man standing outside of a storefront dressed in a black suit and topped off with a top hat.

“Good morning, neighbor,” Taupe nodded, growing to hate that introduction already. “I am a stranger in your town. What do you folks do around here for excitement?”

The man glared at him before raising his chin and stating matter of factly, “Mind our business.”

Large lettering caught Taupe’s eye as he leaned forward to read what was scrawled on the glass window behind Monsieur Top Hat Dick Face.

“UNDERTAKER and FUNERAL PARLOR.”

Figures.

“You are in Ioway,” one of Taupe’s followers chided, placing a hand on his shoulder as he began to lead his crowd of mindless ducklings away.

“Ioway,” he muttered thoughtfully, cocking an eyebrow. “Well. At least now I know how to pronounce it. I always thought you folks preferred «Eye-oh-wuh»”.

“We do,” another voice cut in. A bespectacled woman with loud, frizzy blonde hair had joined the duckling march.

Pausing, Taupe submitted to a brief break of character. He allowed himself to scowl at her incredulously before jamming his thumb behind his shoulder. “Well, he just said «Eye-oh-way».”

“We say it now and then,” a woman with rather mangy red hair countered, stepping into the herd. Taupe shook his head and continued to march forward. “But we don’t like anybody else to.”

Nodding and giving a rather cynical “Ah”, Taupe found himself stopping once again in favor of someone around his age, taller and with dark hair and noticeable blue eyes. “We are from-“

“Ioway,” Taupe interrupted, sticking a hand up to silence him. He forced himself to stretch out a phony grin. “I know.”

As he began to cross the street, his herd was growing into quite the considerable crowd. “Well,” he announced, feeling slightly discombobulated with all of the attention, “you folks certainly know how to make a body feel at home.”

Though he was beginning to form some half-baked interpretation of what River City residents were like, we found himself taken off guard when Black Hair strode in front of him, exclaiming jovially “Oh, there’s nothing halfway about the Iowa way to treat you, when we treat you-“

“-which we may not do at all,” another man cut in. What threw Taupe for a loop was that these derelicts had the gall to burst into song, as if they had rehearsed laboriously and sang it in a cult-like fashion to every newcomer who dared show his mug around town.

Unsure of as to why he had been anything but on his toes since he had arrived, Taupe bit his lip and allowed the upcoming events to unfurl. He was supposed to melt into the background and be one of these mindless halfwits. They were stubborn, certainly, as he was, but that was not enough to constitute a lecture on why bursting into Kiddie Hour Pussy Sing Along Fun Time was demeaning and offensive to their own reputation.

“There’s an Iowa kind,” yet another native continued, stopping Taupe in his tracks, “the special chip-on-the-shoulder attitude we’ve never been without-“

“-that we recall,” a particularly motherly looking woman with mousy brown hair chimed in.

Obeying his instinct that begged him to run, chase off these damned boot-lickers, get rid of them, Taupe took a few hearty strides away from his mob turned choir as they sang in unison “We can be cold as our falling thermometers in December if you ask about our weather in July.”

Somehow, he was surrounded. Taupe whirled around and found himself facing yet another group of carolers. All he could do was walk briskly and refuse them the privilege of eye contact and think bitterly that they certainly liked to stick together.

“We’re so by-God stubborn,” a man donning brown hair beginning to thin as well as a pair of glasses declared, stopping Taupe in his tracks once again, “we can stand touching noses for a week at a time and never see eye to eye!”

Taupe realized he had wound up on the steps of the City Hall and was cornered. Resigned, the threw his briefcase down on the steps and sat upon it, crossing his arms and waiting begrudgingly for the next verse of advice he would spend hours trying to dislodge from his memory.

“But what the heck,” the town serenaded to him, “you’re welcome. Join us at the picnic.”

“You can eat your fill of all the food you bring yourself,” someone snarled, and Taupe fought the urge to slap the finger being thrust in his face out of the way. He felt as though he were being scolded by his mother for breaking a window. He adjusted his bow tie and collar as he struggled not to look anyone directly in the eye.

“You really ought to give Iowa a try.”

“Provided you are contrary,” the rancher from before with the horse intervened.

Before Taupe could think of some miraculous excuse to free him from the suffocating clutches of anymore serenading, a “‘Morning, Mayor Broflovski!” caught his attention.

He whirled around and sure enough, behind him was a lanky man looming over him. He had a goatee and brown hair covered with a rather ridiculous looking cowboy hat. The audacity of this man who looked as if he spent his evenings bent over a book and sipping fine wine and engaging in useless banter, wearing a ridiculously incongruous outfit made Taupe want to laugh right in his face. But, instead, he moved out of the way to allow what appeared to be his family to get by.

“Good morning, Mayor Broflovski,” the residents of River City chanted in disconcerting unison.

“It is if you want to go around in your drawers all day,” Broflovski responded bitterly, herding his family away. His wife was a bigger woman with loud red hair dressed in an equally ridiculous outfit of feathers and lace. Taupe believed the only thing that was absent from her wardrobe was a large sign that said “BULLY ME”.

Two sons followed behind, a boy around Taupe’s age with messy red curls and a defined nose. His eyes were focused on his feet as he marched along, not bothering to look up. He seemed to be smart, both intelligent and cunning, contrasting with his family. He seemed as if he were embarrassed to be seen in public.

A younger son brought up the rear, who did not look like he belonged in the family at all. He had dark hair and particularly beady eyes and an air of inquisitivity about him. Perhaps he was adopted.

Do not get yourself involved in useless family matters, Taupe reprimanded silently. He was letting his curiosity get to the best of him and his guard was uncharacteristically low.

“We can be cold as our falling thermometers in December if you ask about our weather in July.”

He picked up his suitcase and strode to the middle of the plaza, hoping to find some sort of escape, but of course he found himself being suffocated by the choir. “We’re so by-God stubborn we can stand touching noses for a week at a time and never see eye to eye,” they chorused yet again, refusing to take their eyes off of him. Resigned once again, Taupe sat upon his briefcase.

He saw it.

Well, no, he didn’t. He did not know what “it” was, but he felt it.

The crowd of country bumpkins before him, all itching to get a look at his neat clothes and professional demeanor, belonged his easiest venture yet. They appreciated music. There could be no doubt about it. A collection of nosy pricks that opted to burst into song and provide cynical snatches of advice through said song would surely be able to fall into the boy’s marching band trap. They would be easy to manipulate, yes, barely a finger would be lifted. In all honesty, they were doing all of the heavy lifting themselves. And while Taupe appreciated and respected a challenge, easy breaks such as these often felt equally rewarding when the process was said and done.

Yes. This was it.

When they sang the next “But we’ll give your our shirt and a bag to go with it if your crops should happen to die”, Taupe allowed himself to capitulate to the desire to grin. He could not help but listen to the playful tugs pulling at his chest, reminding him that he’ll be able to get off scott-free with a fat stash of cash in his hands while the natives shit themselves attempting to even fathom the severity of which they had just been conned.

So entranced in planning out every move and tactically imagining out each possible scenario, he did not register that he remained the audience of some sort of show.

“So what the heck, you’re welcome. Glad to have you with us.”

“Even though we may not ever mention it again!”

“You really ought to give Iowa, Hawkeye Iowa,” his choir sang, just for him, clueless as to what lies in store. “Dubuque, Des Moines, Davenport, Marshalltown, Mason City, Keokuk, Ames, Clear Lake.”

Taupe was snapped back to reality when he realized his personal serenade ended when the crowd gave one last “Ought to give Iowa a try!” He almost felt dizzy, sluggish, tired even. He despised the feeling and cursed himself for it, but came to the realization that he was experiencing giddiness at the mere thought of weaseling these snakes out of their precious, hard earned money.


	2. Chapter 2

Spryly, Taupe rose and tipped his hat before collecting his briefcase and running into town to explore his surroundings to a deeper extent. He found himself standing near a livery, particularly the “JIMBO KERN PROP. RIVER CITY LIVERY STABLE”. It was a tall, typical red and white painted livery adorned with American flag banners in lieu of the upcoming holiday. Outside it stood a man with an orange hunters cap who was patting a horse rather affectionately as he watched it trot away. Taupe jogged over to him as the man gave him a quizzical glance before saying anything.

“Mister, ah. Kern, yes,” Taupe exclaimed, gesturing to the sign above the livery, as if to justify why he was referring to him by name. “I am interested in a rig for Sunday, if you could accommodate me.”

Kern narrowed his eyes and tilted his square shaped head towards the livery, pointing a fat thumb towards the inside. “Then you ought to see the man in charge ‘a hirin’ rigs,” he answered rather slowly and skeptically before dismissing himself.

Once again, Taupe tipped his hat in jaundice before strolling into the livery. It was rather crowded and smelled musty. There were saddles and ropes strewn lazily upon the painted walls that once, he figured, had been baby blue, but was now a yellow tinged gray with a hint of a hint of blue. Carriages, some mere deconstructed skeletons lying to gather dust in a clump, littered the floor and made it difficult to navigate - Taupe found himself maneuvering over spare bits and pieces of who knows what. Though he did not bother to complain. Clutter had charm and character, as trite and pathetic as it sounded. Taupe was not notorious for his prime organization skills.

There appeared to be not a soul in there, except - of course. A horse was standing nonchalantly near the corner, and Taupe bent down and called to a pair of legs, “Rigs?”

“Rigs? Nobody’s ever heard of that name,” a nasally voice responded indifferently from behind the horse. 

Taupe paused for a moment and put his hand against the horse’s side as he felt a jolt of energy coarse through his veins, causing the hair on his arms to rise. He knew that voice anywhere.

“Clyde!” He declared, regaining his posture. He strode to the back of the horse, pointing a finger confidently. “Clyde Donovan!”

It took a moment for a pudgier man to step out from behind the horse. He had messy brown hair (not to the extent of Taupe’s, but messy enough) and warm brown eyes with an equally warm demeanor. He had a very welcoming air about him and made companions with no issue.

He paused, and Taupe could pinpoint the exact moment when the lightbulb went off. Clyde’s eyes widened as a big, goofy grin plastered onto his face. “Christophe!” He exclaimed gleefully. Christophe gave a hearty chuckle that was cut short when he found himself the victim of a bone crushing hug. Clyde slapped him vigorously on the back, laughing boisterously. Christophe was not a hugger, and awkwardly tapped his back a few times before managing to weasel himself out of Clyde’s vice.

“Of all the people to run into in Iowa... Christophe!” Clyde opted for Christophe’s hand now, shaking it vehemently. Though Christophe was glad to find a face he recognized, and a trustworthy one at that, he still put a finger to his lips and shushed him. Clyde was one of those people who were naturally loud and were often unaware of the volume their voice produced.

“Taupe’s the name this trip,” Christophe informed him, keeping his voice low, “Professeur Taupe.” He looked around to make sure nobody had heard the commotion Clyde had caused. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Clyde asked, beside himself as he pulled Christophe next to him and continued to clap him roughly on the shoulder a few times, for good measure. Along with being naturally loud, he was naturally touchy, something Christophe lacked entirely. 

“I did not know I was myself,” he grinned as Clyde led him to the entrance. “Besides, I never thought I would find a slicker like you out here in the Hailstone and Sarsaparilla belt.”

Clyde had not stopped grinning from ear to ear once as he gestured to the horse waiting calmly in the livery. “This is where I work,” he announced proudly.

That took Christophe by surprise. Clyde, his shill, one of the best con men he had ever met, had now become one of these derelicts. “You mean you live in this town?” He asked dubiously, swept by genuine surprise.

Clyde nodded, laughing at Christophe’s expression of bewilderment. “Yeah! I like it, too. I mean, it’s not Brooklyn, New York. It’s not the city of homes and churches, but-“

“Brooklyn?” Christophe cut him off, shaking his head. “Clyde, this is not even Dubuque... hey.” He cut himself off to give him an accusatory glower, defiantly putting his hands on his hips. He cocked an eyebrow and growled “Are you hiding out or what?”

“No,” Clyde responded, and Christophe knew by the pure earnesty in his tone that he was being truthful. His grin faltered for a moment before the corners of his mouth twitched again as he wandered along, “Just. Not as light on my feet as I used to be when I was shilling for you, Chris.” He put one foot on top of a rotting bench that looked as though someone had thought painting over it would disguise its inevitable decay. “You know, you’re in the business. Got an awful lot of close shaves. I’ve got a nice job, and...” he hesitated before giving him a knowing grin, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with pure amusement. Christophe could sense that Clyde wanted him to react to whatever bombshell he was itching to drop. “I could use a nice romance, you know?” 

All he could do was nod disapprovingly. Christophe had often said that romances were futile and nothing more than a distraction. Thinking with your dick would get you nowhere but trouble and only blinded you of your senses. Still, he couldn’t be too pissed. Clyde was a good man and deserved to live a fulfilling life. 

“So you’ve gone legitimate, eh?” He remarked, picking up his briefcase. “I knew you’d come to no good.” He gave him a scowl before submitting to a grin and clapping him on the shoulder and sitting down on the bench.

“Hey, what are you selling now?” Clyde inquired, joining him. “Last I heard about you, you were in steam automobiles.”

“I was.”

“Well, what happened?”

Christophe smiled bitterly, scoffing “Somebody actually invented one.”

Almost in the same manner as if he were being told that Santa Claus was a sham, Clyde’s eyes widened as pure, unadulterated shock lit his face. “No,” he gasped, daring to believe it. 

Christophe looked at him before chucking to himself, shaking his head. “So now, I am back at the old stand.” He waved his fingers around nonchalantly, imitating what looked to be reminiscent of a drunk conductor instructing a band. 

“Not boys bands?” Clyde asked apprehensively. Christophe put up his hands in playful defeat.

“Well, they don’t have a call for boys bands in this town,” Clyde observed, resting his elbow upon Christophe’s briefcase. “Anything these Iowa folk don’t already have, they do without.” 

Though Christophe figured the answer merely from his spectacular introduction, he asked regardless, curious to hear an insider’s input, “They got music?”

The gears were turning as Clyde hesitated before nodding, deep in thought. “Well, they’ve got a gramophone down at the barber shop-“ Christophe snickered - “and a stuck up librarian that gives piano.”

“Gives piano,” Christophe reiterated thoughtfully, pantomiming someone playing a piano.

“Yeah, single guy. He’ll expose you before you get this band unpacked.”

“Now Clyde,” Christophe said, eager to accept a challenge, “you know single guy librarians who give piano are a specialty of mine. You just point him out to me the minute you see him.” He continued to pantomime the piano player again, and Clyde did the same, nodding. “Yeah. I will back him into a corner and breathe on his glasses,” he declared and both of them exchanged a short laugh. Clyde then tapped Christophe’s shoulder and pointed to a woman walking with seldom sloth in her step.

“Thar she blows,” he snickered. She seemed awfully angry about something. 

Confused, Christophe shot Clyde a look. He had just mentioned how he’d hunt down the librarian who happened to be a man, and now he was talking about women? Perhaps his time in Iowa truly had dulled his brain a touch.

“Well, I will do it but I will not like it,” he grimaced, watching as the angry woman made her way to the library. She was sporting a yellow book in her hand and had white the death grip on it. Her eyebrows were twisted into a wicked scowl that even Christophe felt could give him a run for his money.

“That’s not the librarian,” Clyde laughed, shaking his head. “Didn’t you hear me? The librarian’s a guy. Anyway, that’s Sheila Broflovski, the mayor’s wife.” He then collapsed into a fit of cackling, causing Christophe to laugh with him, although a tad nervously at himself for making such a batshit simple mistake. The Iowans were getting to him.

Sheila Broflovski stormed into the library, not once breaking her expression of pure malice. She approached the front desk where a particularly handsome man stood. He had striking blue eyes and rather prominent golden curls slicked back with the assistance of a lump sum of styling gel. He had defined features and many of the local girls fawned over him frequently, much to his reluctance. He was leafing through a book, one of his wretched propaganda books, Sheila screamed to herself silently. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Broflovski,” the librarian greeted in a velvety British accent. He evidently did not seem fazed by Sheila’s prominent frown and instead flashed her a warm smile. The gall.

“Don’t change the subject,” she retaliated, ensuring that her voice was just the right volume so other people would tear their attention to her favor. She slammed the book down on the desk and stared the librarian right in the eye, who looked down at the book and back at her with no indication of any concern.

“Is something the matter?” He asked, barely batting an eye.

“The same thing is the matter,” she announced sternly, giving a short sweep around glance to see if she could spot any listeners, “as is all was the matter here.” She tapped the book with her glove, not allowing her finger to come in contact with the hard cover for long, as if she were afraid she would catch some horrible disease if she did. “Look.”

Hesitantly, the librarian cast his gaze upon the book forced in front of him. Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, rendered into English verse by Edward Fitzgerald.

“Is this the sort of book you give my son to read?” Sheila demanded sharply, glaring at the librarian with her eagle eyes. “This ruby hat of Omar... Kayayayayayam? I am appalled!”

Sighing, the librarian prepared to listen to the same spiel he did every week, you are poisoning our youth, it will take us weeks to erase the damage your recommendations have done to our children, we must fight the source of it, how dare you possess the audacity, etcetera etcetera. 

“I did recommend it,” he confessed, holding her gaze. “It’s beautiful Persian poetry.”

“It’s dirty Persian poetry,” Sheila countered, offended that this librarian could so offhandedly excuse her status as mayor’s wife and defy her to her face. “People lying out in the middle of the woods eating sandwiches, getting drunk-“ -the librarian hid an exasperated sigh as he fought the urge not to roll his eyes at her ignorance- “with pitfall and with gin, drinking directly out of jugs with innocent young girls? No son of mine-“

“Mrs. Broflovski,” the librarian interjected loudly, shooting her a glower. He was very mild mannered and quite the gentleman, he would say, not to brag of course, oh no, but he had a low tolerance for ignorance and complete disregard of rationality, indeed. “The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám is a classic.”

However, she continued to refuse to listen to reason, putting up a gloved hand and shaking her head, raising an eyebrow condescendingly. “It’s a smutty book,” she announced in a low tone, as if she were giving away some secret she had been dying to spill. “Like most of the others you keep here, I daresay.”

“Honestly, Mrs. Broflovski,” the librarian sighed, exasperation giving way to confusion, “wouldn’t you rather your son read a classic than...” he paused for a moment before lowering his voice, “than Elinor Glyn?”

Sheila was not rattled. Instead, she leaned over the desk and growled “What Elinor Glyn reads is her mother’s problem.” It was evident she hadn’t the slightest idea as to who Elinor Glyn, the British novelist, even was. “Just you keep your dirty books away from my son!”

With that, she strutted away angrily, much like a peacock, the librarian thought to himself heatedly, watching her assortment of feathers bob angrily with each prudent step. A young girl approached the librarian with a book she intended to check out, and, not taking his eyes off the door, he stamped it with as much force as he could muster, seething at how oblivious some people could ever manage to be.


	3. Chapter 3

“Clyde, you sure picked yourself a town.”

A considerable crowd had accumulated in front of a store front window. The billiards parlor. Even the night could not limit the activity of River City residents. They were all herded together, no more than a bunch of animals, struggling to take turns to look at whatever lied beyond the glass window pane. It was as if the Pope was there, they were shoving and craning necks as if their little stubborn lives depended on it. Still, he was no better, Christophe pondered, as he was the one sitting on the park bench, choosing to watch them while splitting some peanuts with Clyde. 

“Why don’t you let me take you over to the hotel?” Clyde offered. He had lost interest in spying on the billiard parlor almost immediately. He didn’t analyze everything about anything like Christophe. He swore the guy could see ghosts if he really tried.

Christophe cracked a peanut open with his teeth rather loudly. “Not sure I am going to stay yet.” He turned to look at Clyde, his face twisted into the scowl that indicated a plan was in the works. “First, I have got to find a way to get into some of these... Iowa boodle-bags.” 

Clyde shook his head grimly. “Chris, it’s not easy.” 

“All I need is an opening,” Christophe added, glancing around absentmindedly. The gears were turning, Clyde thought with a pang or amusement. “Ah, you remember the pitch. What can I use? What is...” he gestured vaguely, “new around here?”

“Well, the other day,” Clyde chuckled after a pause, “a farmer brought in an egg, had three yolks in it. Was in the paper.”

He tried his best to stifle another laugh when he saw Christophe’s expression of feigned flummox. “Oh, that is exciting all right,” he responded sardonically. “Now, what do you talk about?”

Clyde split a peanut shell in half with his thumbs. “Well, there’s the weather of course.” He looked up at the clear, muggy stars. “When it’s in season.” 

“Now Clyde,” Christophe proclaimed in that tone that indicated he was done beating around the bush - he could take a good joke or two, yes, but always prioritized business. There was a certain point when he reached his limit. He was not one to waste time. “I need some ideas if I am going to get your town out of the serious trouble it’s in.” He took off his hat and held it against his chest, crossing his legs matter of factly.

Of course, Clyde scoffed. “River City’s not in any trouble.” 

He had been expecting that, Christophe thought. He could feel the sting of exasperation beginning to pull within his throat.

“Then I will have to create some,” he answered, mainly muttering to himself. “Must create a desperate need in your town for a boy’s band.” Clyde merely shot him an amused glance indicating that he believed even Christophe couldn’t shake the stubborn from River City.

More and more people were strolling along to catch one glance at the billiard parlor. The growing demand to inquire about it finally reached its peak, and Christophe pointed to the window. “So why does everybody keep rubbering in to the billiard parlor?”

“Oh, they just got in a new pool table,” Clyde replied, and his tone made it sound as though he was talking about a stale piece of cheese left to rot on the sidewalk for days.

When Clyde refused to provide a more illuminating answer, Christophe inquired quizzically “They must have seen a pool table before?” 

“No,” Clyde shook his head while Christophe bit into another peanut, “just billiards.”

A pause. Christophe froze, raising his leg and pointing at Clyde with both hands while he continued to ogle at the growing zoo by the window. He then placed two fingers on his forehead and looked down, a scowl resurfacing on his brow. Clyde glanced at him, concerned, unable to arrive to any conclusion that may reveal Christophe’s next intentions. After a moment, Christophe bit his lip and snapped his fingers.

“That’ll do it.”

Almost with a sense of urgency, Christophe rose and placed his hands on Clyde’s shoulder, staring at him with intense hazel eyes. Here he goes.

“You just sit where you are,” he directed, and pointed a finger right between his eyes. “And remember. If you see that music teacher...” he gave the signal, pantomiming the piano. Clyde again followed suit, pretending to play the piano, and Christophe gave him one last point of the finger, as if he didn’t trust Clyde to remember. He did, mostly, but you had to account for the unexpected and always prepare yourself.

He gave one last curt nod and glanced at Clyde from across his shoulder before running out in the middle of the street and to the neighboring storefront of the billiard parlor. A taller man with black hair, strong chin, and a rather prominent mustache was placing a basket next to some fruit. Inside, there were rows and rows of various groceries - meats, fruits, vegetables, spices, etcetera. On the glass window in large blue lettering were the words “RANDY MARSH”. 

“Are you Mr. Marsh?” Christophe asked, tapping the man on the shoulder.

He gave him an apprehensive look, looking around to see if he had any other followers. “Yeah?” He responded after a moment’s pause. 

“Well,” Christophe announced, preparing to close in. “Either you are closing your eyes to a situation you do not wish to acknowledge-“ Randy flicked him another look that indicated he was losing interest. Christophe jabbed a finger in his face in an attempt to catch him by surprise. “-or you are not aware of the caliber of disaster indicated by the presence of a pool table in your community.”

Thankfully, the bozo bought into the bait, turning to give the billiard parlor the privilege of a glance. Christophe nodded to himself quickly. He grabbed Randy by the arm and led him away, declaring smugly “Well, you’ve got trouble, my friend.” 

That caught his attention. Christophe could feel Randy jerk within his grip. “Right here I say,” he swept his hand along, gesturing to the town square, “trouble right here in River City.”

With a trepidatious adjustment of his grocers vest, Randy evidently gave up any attempts to resist as he gave in and listened to Christophe ramble on. 

“Why sure I’m a billiard player,” he announced, slipping into his con-man speciality, fast-talking, “Certainly. Mighty proud to say, I’m always mighty proud to say it.” 

He had him hooked, and Christophe fought the growing sensation of the ends of his lip starting to quirk into the beginnings of a grin. “I consider that the hours I spend with a cue in my hand-“ - he pretended to add chalk to his cue - “are golden. Help you cultivate horse sense and a cool head and a keen eye.” 

Predictably, everything he was spouting off was a lie. He had never bothered with such menial games like pool. And thankfully, his target seemed too oblivious to raise any objections. That or he was excelling at his job. It was that, yes, he thought, but the bull headed oblivion so rampant in the town played a prominent part as well. 

“Did you ever take and try to give an iron-clad leave to yourself from a three rail billiard shop?”

More people were beginning to accumulate around him and his victim, but at a distance, as if they were afraid of being bitten by the dog that was Christophe’s words.

“But just as I say it,” he continued, grabbing a passerby by the arm and pulling him in, “it takes judgement, brains, and maturity to score in a balkline game.”

Another passerby was riding along on a bicycle, and Christophe reached over to grab the handlebars as his duckling cult began to form behind him. “I say that any boob can take and shove a ball in a pocket.” He strode over to the curb of the street, where Clyde was holding Christophe’s briefcase and staring at him with that same wonderment one might see in a toddler. 

“And I call that sloth,” he grunted, pushing the bicyclist from behind and causing him to speed away. “The first big step on the road to the depths of deg-ra-day—“ he tapped Clyde on the chest, who stared at his finger and then his face in utter confusion, so strong Christophe could feel it radiating in waves. Nevertheless, he would catch on, he always did. “I say first, medicinal wine from a teaspoon-“ he yanked Clyde by the arm who stumbled slightly, fumbling with Christophe’s briefcase. He did, however, catch on as Christophe had hoped, for he too grabbed a random passerby by the arm, albeit in rather clumsy fashion. “-then beer from a bottle!”

He led his followers to the large circle in the middle of the street. Smack dab in the middle stood a large statue of a man pointing his finger with one hand and resting his other hand atop a stack of bronze books. He had no idea who this symbol was or why his importance was so prominent that a statue had been erected to remember him by, but there was a crowd of people laying around it. The perfect stage.

“And the next thing you know, your son is playing for money in a pinch-back suit.” He couldn’t help but curse himself, for, although it was not a perfect tear-jerking, thunderous applause inducing melody, he had sang the words, half muttering and half carrying some sort of tune. It was embarrassing, but it was a part of the job, and it was not meant to be easy. Some sacrifices had to be made, and unfortunately, that included the sacrifice of dignity.

He jumped up upon a small platform of pavement surrounding the statue as Clyde darted to the opposite side rather oafishly. He was not the most graceful duck on the pond. “And listening to some big out of town Jasper hearing him tell about horse-race gambling.” Many of the people who had been sitting around suddenly, urgently, crowded around Christophe, and he could see dull panic in their eyes. 

Excellent.

“Not a wholesome trotting race,” he pontificated to the increasing amount of anxious faces, “no! But a race where they sit down right on the horse!” A group of women exchanged horrified, open mouthed glances. “Like to see some stuck-up jockey boy sitting on Dan Patch?” He moved his arms and bent his knees to imitate a jockey riding a horse. “Make your blood boil? Well, I should say.” 

Gesturing to his audience, they leaned forward, obediently crouching down, as if listening to his every command like some sort of trained dog. “Now friends, let me tell you what I mean. You’ve got one, two, three, four, five, six pockets in the table.” He pointed his finger with each number he counted off, and, as if they were engaged in some sort of hypnosis exercise, the crowd’s eyes flickered around with every movement. 

“Pockets that mark the difference,” he exclaimed, and forced himself to scowl, which was a first - he had a natural, resting glare - in order to evoke more apprehension from his crowd, “between a gentleman and a bum with a capital B and that rhymes with P and that stands for ‘pool’!” 

On cue, a chorus of gasps replaced the intense silence of comprehension as Christophe took a dramatic step forward, lurching in to ensure his crowd wouldn’t slink out of his grip. “And all week long, your River City youth will be frittering away, I say your young men will be frittering!” 

Now people appeared to have moved past the initial stage of shock and began to interact with each other, anxiously touching each other’s arms and exchanging horrified glances, while Christophe ranted on “Frittering away their noon time, supper time, chore time, too.”

He pretended to be shooting a pool ball as he continued on, “Get the ball in the pocket. Never mind getting the dandelions pulled-“ a gentle pluck with a swift flick of the wrist “-or the screen door patched-“ a rectangle traced with his finger “-or the beefsteak pounded,” a curt shooing motion. Through the flurry of his words he could spot a pair of parents glaring disapprovingly at their son, who looked down at his feet, as if he were the prime motivation behind Christophe’s bantering.

“Never mind pumping any water until your parents are caught with the cistern empty on a Saturday night, and that’s trouble! Yes, you’ve got lots and lots of trouble.” He shook his finger at the faces of the fearful, the faces of the gullible, the faces of the idiocy that plagued the face of the earth. “I am thinking of the kids in the knickerbockers, shirt-tail young ones, peeking in the pool hall window after school!”

Angrily, he thrust his arm towards the billiard parlor and watched as a ripple of heads whipped around to see a large crowd at the window, even with a kid lifted upon someone’s shoulders so as to get a glimpse of the damned pool table. 

“You’ve got trouble! Folks!” His voice had evolved to a shout as he twisted his expression into a panic stricken frown. “Right here in River City! Trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for ‘pool’!” 

Lowering his voice, he slid his tone into a buttery croon as if he were speaking affections to a beloved pet. “Now, I know all you folks are the right kind of parents. I’m going to be perfectly frank. Would you like to know what kind of conversation goes on while they’re loafing around the Hall?” 

Though it was certain their puny minds were hooked on every word, every person with bated breath, Christophe instructed himself to move his body more, lowering himself with each syllable on the word “conversation” as the crowd mindlessly followed, as if they would not comprehend his message if they did anything otherwise. “They’ll be trying out Bevo, trying out Cubebs, trying out Tailor Mades like cigarette fiends!” 

If the sense of rampant urgency had not already been amplified, well, it was now, no doubt about it. Christophe thought some of the eyes could not become any wider, as if the very flesh securing them in would tear, and yet he was proved wrong with each word he preached. “And bragging all about how they’re going to cover up a tell-tale breath with Sen-Sen.”

A chorus of gasps.

“One fine night, they leave the pool hall, heading for the dance at the Arm’ry!” He closed his eyes and placed a hand on his stomach and swayed quickly, imitating some sort of exaggerated romantic dance. 

“Libertine men and Scarlet women!” He threw his hands up in the air, shaking them as he yelled the words “and ragtime, shameless music that will grab YOUR son-“ he pointed in a general direction and could spot a woman protectively throwing an arm across her son’s chest, “-YOUR daughter-“ another woman pulled her young daughter close to her chest, “with the arms of a jungle animal instinct!” He crossed his arms over his forehead, bellowing “MASS-STERIA!” as apprehension and urgency turned to pure, unfiltered, primal fear.

Once again he dared to tread the waters of slipping into a melody, chanting “Friends, the idle brain is the devil’s playground!” 

Sold. With the mere indication of the devil plaguing the minds of the town’s youth, the animal fear rose to panic as many voices in the crowd collided together in unified discord. It was pathetic, Christophe thought as he greedily surveyed the unfurling cacophony, how one word can completely control the mind of a being. As a con-man and essential actor he had to bite back his comments, but he had a rather intense disdain for all things religion, viewing it as nothing but a fear mongering tool. This was his proof.

“Trouble!”

With that, he raised a hand above his head and jumped off his platform, running around the sidewalk and flashing by the faces of the vulnerable as they responded desperately, in song, “Oh, we got trouble!”

“Right here in River City!”

He shook his hands and slapped on his best crazed expression as he flailed about, making a point to look each possible person directly in the eye. “Right here in River City!” They echoed.

“With a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for ‘pool’!”

Each person he passed seemed to mimic him, a sea of hands collecting in the air as they echoed despairingly “That stands for ‘pool’!” 

“We’ve surely got trouble!”

“We’ve surely got trouble!”

“Right here in River City!”

The sea of hands turned into a sea of pointed fingers as everyone simultaneously crouched down and pointed to their feet, refusing to take their eyes off of Christophe, their saving grace. 

“Right here!”

He ran back to his post at the front of the statue, calling “We’ve got to figure out a way to keep the young ones moral after school!”

If he had not thought their strange tendency to spontaneously burst into song had already been cult-like, well, any doubt could be taken off the table. They bent down and pumped their hands above their knees, chanting in a frantic whisper that, together, was seldom quiet “Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble...” Although it was rather disconcerting, Christophe chose to ignore it as he spoke over the din.

“Mothers of River City”, he speechified, “heed the warning before it is too late.” 

Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

“Watch for the tell-tale signs of corruption.”

Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

“The minute your son leaves the house, does he rebuckle his knickerbockers...”

Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Below the waist?” 

He lifted his own knee, gesturing furiously. To his satisfaction, he watched as Clyde, that good old bastard, grabbed a lady’s attention and signaled to a young boy with long blonde hair wearing a newsboy hat and a loud burgundy suit. Frantically, the mother lifted up her son’s knickerbockers as if he had caught a terrible disease manifesting below his knee and the only way to eradicate it was to check his pants.

Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

“Is there a nicotine stain on his index finger? A dime novel hidden in the corn crib?”

Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

“Is he starting to memorize jokes... from Captain Billy’s Whizbang?”

Though Christophe was not one for expressing affection, an animal desire to jump into the crowd and hug Clyde leaped at his chest as he watched his shill pull out a copy of Whizbang and display it to the mother, who gave her poor son the most piercing glare Christophe thought he had ever witnessed. Clyde shot Christophe a look before giving him a quick wink and a goofy grin. 

Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

“Are certain words creeping into his conversation?”

Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

“Words like...”Christophe thought for a moment, licking his index finger and glancing up at his brow. “Like ‘swell?’”

A thunderous “TROUBLE!” erupted from the cult as more eyes widened and more mouths opened.

“Aha,” he grinned, pointing and nodding in complacency. “and ‘so is your old man’!” 

TROUBLE! Trouble! Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

“But if so, my friends!” He dove into the congregation once more, beginning his charade of frantic running all over again, “We’ve got trouble!” 

“Oh, we’ve got trouble!”

“Right here in River City!”

“Right here in River City!”

“With a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for ‘pool’!”

“That stands for ‘pool’!”

“We’ve surely got trouble!”

“We’ve surely got trouble!”

After making his rounds like some sort of fear mongering delivery person, he returned to his post at the statue once more, barely feeling any effects of his frantic running. It was certain they would buy into the desperate need for a boys band. 

“Right here in River City!”

“Right here!”

“Remember the Maine, Plymouth Rock, and the Golden Rule!” He spread his arms, opening himself to the crowd and making seemingly pointless allusions, wasting his breath, he thought, but it was for a good cause.

“Oho, we’ve got trouble,” he slipped back to his half-singing manner as he ran over to Clyde and gave him a nudge with the back of his hand onto his chest, which received a half confused, half awestruck nod in response. He darted back to the statue and leaned against it, beginning to scale it as he sang “We’re in terrible, terrible trouble. That game with the fifteen numbered balls is the devil’s tool!”

“Devil’s tool!”

He positioned himself so he was sitting on the tallest platform of the statue, looking down upon his following, chanting and pumping his fist in emphasis “Yes, we’ve got trouble, trouble, trouble!”

“Oh yes, we’ve got trouble, yes, oh, big, big, trouble!”

He opened his arms, “With a capital T!”

The ducklings mimicked him, echoing “With a capital T!”

He jabbed a finger. “Gotta rhyme it with P!”

The ducklings pumped their arms up and down. “That rhymes with P!”

With a small grunt, Christophe swung his leg to the top of the platform and held onto part of the statue for support as he pulled himself up. “That stands for POOL!”

The choir mimicked him one last time as he imitated the pose of the statue, lifting his right finger in the air and resting his left hand near his hip, exclaiming defiantly “Remember my friends, listen to me because I pass this way but once!”

Trouble! Trouble! Trouble! Trouble!

Clyde found it difficult to tear his eyes away from Christophe, who stood confidently in front of the statue. Hell, he was the statue. He was the icon this town was beginning to worship. Jesus, had he proved him wrong. As admirations flooded Clyde’s mind, the sound of footsteps, faint but evident, provided a brief pause from his respect. He thought everyone in town was gathered around and squished together.

Slowly he turned his head to identify the straggler. It was only the librarian, walking towards the scene.

Wait.

He did a double take, remembering Christophe’s cue. Quickly he attempted to maneuver his way through the crowd that was reluctantly beginning to disperse, almost as if they didn’t want to leave. He shoved his way up front, hoping Christophe would notice. He looked up at him and frantically pantomimed a piano performance.

While the ducklings were finally beginning to find their own way, a foreign movement caught Christophe’s peripherals. He looked down and noticed Clyde, whose eyes were as wide as everyone else’s. A further glance down justified his fear, as he saw Clyde’s hands waving frenziedly back and forth, his fingers moving up and down. 

The music teacher.

Lowering his right hand, Christophe frowned and pantomimed the piano back at him, nodding in unspoken agreement. He jumped off of his soapbox as Clyde shot him a shaky thumbs up. As he darted past his comrade, he noticed that he seemed to be frozen, his hands still in the piano placement, his expression incredulous.

Walking along the street was a slender, taller man. He had obnoxious golden curls slicked back with the aid of gel, reminiscent of a poodle, Christophe grimaced, with striking blue eyes that managed to stand out even in the dark and at a distance. He had an air of superiority about him, strutting in a confident, even gait.

He was the textbook definition of a pretty boy, and Christophe could not have been any more different.  
Stuck up librarian, he remembered. Yes, this was him.

Christophe situated his barbershop hat back on his head and partially concealed his own mane before giving one last look at Clyde, concealed in the depths of concerned conversations and frantic townspeople. He jogged for a small distance before catching up behind the librarian. 

If the librarian had heard his footsteps or felt his presence, he certainly made no indication of it. He continued to strut with no lapse in his stature, not even twitching a muscle, Christophe observed. 

He bit his lip and took a few large strides so as to cut in front of the librarian. He felt a stab of satisfaction when he managed to break his character, only slightly, very slightly, and had Christophe not been as disturbingly observant as he was, he would have missed the faint flicker of icy blue eyes moving up and back to straight forward. Christophe took his hat off and waved it, nothing more than a simple turn of the wrist, but the librarian simply backtracked in his step and brushed aside him, not even blinking an eye. 

The librarian was unsure of why he was being followed by this stranger, this man. This man, there was something off about him, off about how he looked and how he dressed and how he acted and moved and existed. How this man with messy, dirty brown hair, this man with thick eyebrows, this man with eyes that somehow managed to be simultaneously exhausted and alert, this man who walked with an unnatural stiffness as if he had been practicing correct posture, which was taking a toll on him, how this man could be wearing clean clothes and looked so foreign in them. He collected all of that within a moments glance, and it was enough for him to never want to speak to him ever again, even though they had never even exchanged any verbal noises whatsoever.

Determined, Christophe pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, something that very seldom saw the light of day. He marched in front of Pretty Boy, dangling the handkerchief in front of his face. Pretty Boy faltered in character once more as his brows tended and his eyes darted to the cloth dangled like a carrot right in front of his face. 

“Did you drop your-“

“No.”

And now he had the audacity to hit on him, the librarian thought to himself heatedly. He had an accent, thick and unmistakably French, and his voice was scratchy and gruff. A Frenchman was flirting with him, and what for? Was he humoring him? Did he somehow find out that yes, he had a preference for men? It was not as if he flaunted it around for everyone to guess, was it? No, it had to be purely coincidental. Regardless, it was insulting.

Excruciating. That was the first term to surface in Christophe’s mind when he heard Pretty Boy speak in an annoyingly posh British accent. He had not expected to find a fellow European, especially in such a pissant hamlet. Though, he supposed the accent suited him. It was the verbal form of his appearance. Annoying.

Refusing to accept defeat, Christophe grabbed Pretty Boy’s arm, turning to look at him. He paused, studying him, looking, analyzing, attempting to get a read on him before asking “Didn’t I meet you in-“

“No.”

Though he knew it was best not to give the Frenchman the pleasure of a reaction, the librarian was finding it difficult not to say anything, not to scold him, not to take some sort of direct action. Thankfully, he brushed passed him and began to step onto his porch, able to shut him out and leave him to his own creepy self.

Though it should have been obvious, Christophe came to the realization that this was Pretty Boy’s home. It was nearly landscaped, with carefully trimmed hedges and trees littering the lawn, a few of them sporting some sort of flower, who knew what sort it was. Pretty Boy had reached his doorstep and, recognizing a last chance when he saw it, Christophe told him, almost aggressively, “I will only be in town a short while.”

Pretty Boy opened the door before allowing a pause and turning around, and Christophe finally saw some form of emotion and feeling plastered on his stupid, pretty little face. His brows were furrowed and his chin was puffed out as he responded sharply,

“Good.”

With that, Christophe received no other answer except for the sound of glass rattling against wood as the door slammed shut in dismissal.

Clyde was not lying when he said this snob was hard to get. Plunging himself headfirst into thought, allowing himself to structure some sort of plan, Christophe began to walk away when he heard a foreign tinkling. 

Piano.

It came from inside Pretty Boy’s abode, and he took a moment to crane his neck and get a glance at the window, but when he saw a shape grow larger and more defined, he bolted down the sidewalk just in time for the window to slide open as an older woman peered out before walking away, leaving the window open.


	4. Chapter 4

Sitting at the piano was the librarian’s student, young Karen. She was gentle and compassionate and rather observant. Within her single year of learning to play piano, she had become an honorary member of the Thorne household. She had been exposed to a handful of family matters, thanks to the librarian’s mother who did not shy away from gossiping in front of her, much to the librarian’s chagrin. 

Karen had begun her warm up, looking intently down at her fingers, her tempo changing slightly. When she accidentally played a wrong note, nothing major, only a half step higher, Ms. Thorne, who had been carrying a basket and set it on top of the piano, reached down and corrected her. 

“Hello, mother,” the librarian greeted before giving her a small hug. He noticed that Karen was staring at him with the same curious admiration she had by default. “Keep on, Karen,” the librarian instructed gently, turning to go up the staircase, “I’ll be there in a minute.” 

Obediently she carried on, her tempo shifting slightly back and forth before making the same mistake yet again, with Ms. Thorne correcting her once more. And she continued on, same slightly uneven tempo, same mistake. It was the librarian who corrected her now, telling her “That’s fine, dear. Now on with your exercises.”

“Yes, sir!” Karen was a very optimistic child, the librarian had observed, quite bright and willing to accept a challenge. She did not throw fits when she made a mistake, as he had seen too many a time. He was glad to be teaching her.

Karen began to practice her scale exercise as the librarian sat down next to his mother. “Library open later than usual tonight, Gregory?”

“It always is, mother.” Gregory took a pause, unsure of whether or not he should confess his strange encounter with the Frenchman. He did not like to keep secrets, however, mainly because he could not cope with the desire to be truthful and having to suppress it. He could tell a lie or keep a secret easily without batting an eye, and one would never know the difference, but he found it a breach of trust and loyalty. “Mother,” he started apprehensively, “a man with a suitcase followed me home.”

“Oh? Who?”

Maybe keeping it a secret was the ideal solution after all. Gregory’s mother had always been interested in his romantic affairs, or, rather, lack thereof. She always claimed he needed a good partner to keep him company and expand the family.

“I never saw him before,” he responded earnestly, slightly offended that his mother was taking it as an opportunity to play matchmaker.

“Did he say anything?”

“He tried,” Gregory replied bitterly, thinking of how strange the entire experience was. 

“Did you say anything?”

Gregory could feel the beginnings of a flush coming on, damn his fair complexion. “Of course not, mother!” 

When his mother did not reply, Gregory realized the silence between them was too unnatural. Karen had stopped playing to lend her ear to their conversation, and when Gregory cast his gaze in her direction he saw her turn her head suddenly, aware that she had been caught.

“Now don’t dawdle, Karen,” he told her, striding over to the piano where she sat. He leaned against the piano and bent down to her level and as she played each note, he sang in correspondence, moving his finger with each beat, “Sol, do, la, re, ti, mi, a little slower and please keep the fingers curved as nice and high as you possibly can. Don’t get faster, dear.” She gave him a sincere smile in response.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, it wouldn’t have hurt you to have found out what the gentleman wanted,” Mrs. Thorne said from across the room. She was knitting some sort of scarf.

Gregory narrowed his eyes. He desperately wished his mother would end the subject. He did not want a romance, and especially not with creepy strangers. “I know what the gentleman wanted,” he drawled bitterly.

“What, dear?”

She had to have been humoring him. “You’ll find it in Balzac,” he groused, placing a metronome atop the piano.

“Excuse me for living,” he heard his mother say, “but I’ve never read it.”

“Neither has anyone else in this town,” he sang along with the tune Karen resumed, the same scale only a half step higher.

“There you go again with the same old comment about the low mentality of River City people and taking it all too much to heart,” Mrs. Thorne argued, eventually joining in keeping Karen’s tune.

The nerve of his mother, Gregory thought in annoyance, he was a grown man, not a child. He could be responsible for finding his own romances, and they certainly did not lie in River City. “Now mother,” he responded, walking towards her. He turned around and pointed his finger in time with Karen’s rhythm as he sang “As long as the Madison Public Library was entrusted to me for the purpose of improving River City’s cultural level-“ he took a short breath “-I can’t help my concerns that the ladies of River City keep ignoring my council and advice.”

“But darling,” his mother countered, almost in a plea. Darling. He found it insulting. “When a woman has a husband and you’ve got none-“ though his mother was aware of his preference for men, he wished she would have left that comment to herself, or better yet, said nothing, “-Why should she take advice from you? Even if you can’t quote Balzac and Shakespeare and all those other high polluting Greeks.”

It was not as though he flaunted around town, begging for people to ask him for advice. It seemed that all of the women in River City, not limited to Mrs. Broflovski, found some way to desecrate the name of the books they themselves had checked out. And what, pray tell, did men and romances have to do with that?

“Mother, if you don’t mind my saying so you have a bad habit of changing every subject-“

“No I haven’t changed the subject, I was talking about the stranger-“

“What stranger!?”

“With the suitcase, who may be your very last chance.”

All the while, Karen continued to play her warmups as they executed their argument along her melody to keep her in time. Gregory hoped she was getting a kick out of listening to his mother intervene in his potential romantic life. 

“Now mother, do you think that I’d allow a common masher— now really, mother! I have my standards where men are concerned, and I have no intention-“

“I know all about your standards,” his mother replied, standing up rather smugly, Gregory analyzed, “and if you don’t mind my saying so, there’s not a man alive who could hope to measure up to that blend of Paul Bunyan, Saint Pat and Noah Webster you’ve concocted for yourself-“ Gregory could feel heat rising from his cheeks and ears as he once again cursed his fair skin silently, “out of your British imagination, your Iowa stubbornness and your library full of books!”

Right on cue, Karen drew the argument to a close by banging out one last chord on the piano before rising and grinning at Gregory expectantly.

“Well, if that isn’t the best I’ve ever heard,” he announced in regards to Karen, though glaring at his mother all the while. 

“Thank you,” Karen smiled before providing a curtsy. “Can I have a drink, please?”

“May I,” Gregory corrected her gently.

“May I have a drink, please?” 

He gave a nod. “You may.”

She sauntered away to the porch outside, trekking down the wooden steps with the nimble agility of a faun. As she pumped the water well and poured herself a ladle of water, she moved her eyes to the direction of the wooden fence gate as she watched it swing open, announcing a new visitor with the squeal of its hinges.

Walking towards her was none other than Scott, Mr. Thorne’s little brother who she found absolutely fascinating. He looked nothing like Mr. Thorne, and found it impossible to believe they were related by blood, as he didn’t even have the same accent as Mr. Thorne. He had stringy brown hair and prominent freckles, with an overall awkward demeanor in comparison to Mr. Thorne’s confidence. He was different and she always wanted to learn more about him.

“Hello Scott,” Karen greeted with a smile as she dumped the water she had poured in her ladle into a small wooden pail, completely disregarding her thirst. 

He did not look at her or move his head, he just continued to stare down at his feet as he scaled the porch steps. Karen heard Mr. Thorne’s mother say “Scott, it’s after dark, dear.” 

Realizing Scott could not ignore her as Mrs. Thorne stood at the door, Karen informed him eagerly “I’m having a party on Saturday! Will you please come?”

As he turned to go inside, Karen kept at it, adding “It’s going to be a very nice party, and I’d especially like it if you’d come.”

“Well, Scott?” Mrs. Thorne asked expectantly. “Karen asked you to her party. Are you going or aren’t you?”

There was a long pause before he gave a rather angry “No.”

“No what?”

Scott turned his head slightly and made eye contact with Karen for one second before turning around and muttering “No thank you.”

“Now you know the little girl’s name,” Mrs. Thorne told him as she gently blocked him from going any further. 

“I bet he won’t say it,” Karen observed in hopes to provoke him. Even though her name had no s’s or th’s, she had never heard him say her name once.

“No thank you who, Scott?”

And even though her name did not induce any of his lisp, Scott ran past his mother and into the household. Karen followed eagerly, not daring to miss a moment. He was so peculiar.

Gregory watched as his little brother entered the home, greeting him with a simple “Hello, Scott”, but watched in trepidation as he darted right past him and up the staircase. He watched as his mother followed him, shaking her head.

“Scott, you didn’t even say hello to your brother.” 

Karen turned to Gregory and told him, as if reciting a fact she had learned in the schoolhouse, “He’s afraid to say anything because of his lisp. He’s ashamed.”

Biting back a sigh, Gregory held her gaze, responding “We know all about his lisp, Karen.”

“Why should he get so mad at people, just because he lisps?” Karen sounded genuinely hurt and confused, which made Gregory feel some fatherly desire to sit down and have some sort of formal talk. Of what, he did not know. But he felt pity for something he could not even control.

“Well, that’s just part of it,” Gregory explained apprehensively.

Karen gave him a look, turning her head slightly. “What’s the rest of it?”

Knowing he had shared too much information, Gregory found himself landed in the midst of a silent dilemma. He lacked the heart to tell her that Scott had no father and lived his days wondering why he had been taken from him, secluding himself away from social interaction and spending his days moving around. And, of course, the lisp did little to help. He shook his head and forced himself to smile at Karen, telling her softly “Never mind, dear.” 

Although he meant to tell it to Karen as a dismissal of topic, a part of him knew, its presence indicated by a little itch in his chest, that he was telling himself to drop it as well. 

“It’s just that he never talks very much,” he continued, giving her a small pat on the arm. However, and as Gregory should have figured, her inquisitiveness would not be dulled down. 

“Not even to you and your mother?”

Gregory paused. “No... but we have to be very patient and understanding.”

He watched as Karen’s shoulders rose and fell. “I’m patient,” she told him, and yet it sounded more like a command, as if she were forcing herself to believe it. “I even wish goodnight to him on the evening star.” 

She began to cross over to the open window, and, reluctantly, Gregory followed as she continued “Every night.” She didn’t say anything for a moment as they both spotted a particularly bright star among the rest, diluted in the milky black sky. Gregory found his clothes to suddenly become very itchy and warm as he heard her plead to some unspoken entity, “Goodnight, my Scott. Goodnight...”

It was rather uncomfortable to watch as her shoulders began to shake, and before he knew it she was in Gregory’s arms, choking out a pathetic “Sleep tight...!” Unsure of what exactly to do, Gregory patted her arms as he struggled to think of how to console her. He took pride in his quick thinking and ability to form a plan and act rationally at the blink of an eye. He could act on his feet with no hesitation. And yet, here he was, hesitant as to how to console a crying child who had quite the infatuation with his cumbersome little brother. 

“And he never says anything to me,” Karen sobbed as she bent her head down. It was evident she did not like Gregory to see her in this state. Gregory pulled her in to give her a hug, consoling her “Oh, darling, don’t cry. You’ll have lots of time for sweethearts.” 

Pulling out a handkerchief and delicately dabbing Karen’s eyes with it, he watched as her contorted expression turned from sorrow to confusion as he continued on. “If not Scott, there will be someone else.”

Unfortunately, Karen’s brows began to twitch as she moped “Never, and I’ll end up an old bachelor like you. An old maid.” 

Trying to take such an insult with a grain of salt, Gregory couldn’t help but fight a laugh, mainly a bitter, sarcastic laugh, as he watched Karen come to realize what she had just said as she threw a hand to her mouth, her little eyes the size of saucers. “I-I’m sorry, Mister Gregory,” she stuttered, suddenly unable to make eye contact, “Can I play my cross hand piece?”

“May I,” Gregory corrected yet again, fighting to hear himself over “old bachelor” echoing in the depths of his mind. He did not take insults to heart, normally, and would rather perish than grant anyone the pleasure of knowing their insults had sufficiently reached and perturbed him. And yet, the insult that came from Karen, the sweet, curious, bright, gentle 8 year old piano student with a remarkably big heart — her insult which was just the voice of naivety somehow served as salt on an unknown wound.

“May I play my cross hand piece?” Karen corrected herself, putting on a shaky smile.

“Yes you may.”

She turned to return to her post at the piano, but Gregory knew before she turned back to him that she was itching to ask another question. “If someone doesn’t have a sweetheart, who will they say goodnight to on the evening star?”

“Well, for the time being,” Gregory answered, forcing himself to think, “you can just say... goodnight, my... my someone.” He nodded to himself. “And then you can put the name in when the right ‘someone’ comes along.”

Thankfully, that seemed to do it. “Alright,” Karen answered, sounding slightly uncertain herself. “It’s better than nothing.” 

Gregory gave a smile before responding “Yes, it is.” He realized a moment later he had said it with a sigh. “Now you can play your cross hand piece.”

Karen marched back to the piano bench, hiking up her dress skirt before positioning herself nearly upon it. Gregory chose to keep his eye on the star they had looked at earlier as the sound of piano filled the living room. Goodnight, my someone. A part of him begged to chastise him for acting so flaky. It was not like him at all. He was a confident man and did not bother with entangling himself in useless affairs. And so, why was he so concerned about his lack of a romantic life? One did not require romance to discover meaning in life. There were plenty of other meaningful opportunities that lie ahead, waiting for any person to find. 

And yet, Gregory found himself singing along to the music of Karen once more, no, not singing solfeggi, but to... well, even he did not know. 

“Goodnight, my someone, goodnight, my love. Sleep tight, my someone, sleep tight, my love.”

Karen thought Mister Gregory had a beautiful voice, and always found it a delight when he sang. She focused intently on her finger work, occasionally sweeping her arm over her head and pressing down upon one high key, a B, she remembered, but found herself straining to listen to Mister Gregory over her own music. 

“A star is shining as bright as night. Oh, goodnight, my love, oh, goodnight.”

He did not know who he was serenading. He did not know what had gotten into him. He did not know why he was in such a vulnerable state of mind. Romantic affairs were romantic affairs. He did not have to involve himself nor slave over the thought of them. And yet, he could not stop. 

“Sweet dreams be yours dear, of dreams there be. Sweet dreams to carry you close to me.”

Desperately, he clawed at the desire to stop. He knew that he was singing for Karen, mainly, possibly, potentially. There was no reason to feel guilty about it. He knew he was overthinking things and it was nothing more than a reassurance for Karen. Yet...

“I wish they may, and I wish they might. Now goodnight my someone, goodnight.” 

He had not even noticed the piano music in the background had ceased, nor had he noticed Karen was not in her seat anymore. He continued to look out into the night, as if he were afraid to turn back and tear his eyes away from that one star. 

“True love can be whispered from heart to heart when lovers are parted, they say. But I must depend on a wish and a star as long as my heart doesn’t know who you are.”

Karen finally gave in to the desperate need to come closer to Mister Gregory, sacrificing her cross hand piece. She stood behind him before jumping the gun and sitting by him at the window.

“Sweet dreams be yours dear, if dreams there be. Sweet dreams to carry you close to me.” He felt a shift of weight near him and saw that Karen had sat herself on the bench next to him. He noticed there seemed to be some hesitation lurking in her eyes, as if she had not been granted permission to sit by him. However, he gave her a smile of confirmation, and that hesitation melted away in an instant. 

“I wish they may,” he sang, and realized with a stab of pride that Karen had joined him in song as they both looked up at that star, “and I wish they might. Now goodnight, my someone, goodnight.”

Together, they bid two more “goodnight’s”, and Gregory realized that he did not feel as anxious as to who his audience or what the purpose was. Instead, he affectionately put an arm around Karen as they gave one last prolonged look into the night. 

Goodnight, he echoed silently one last time.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The entire town was packed into the gymnasium of River City High School for some sort of Fourth of July celebration. They were chanting along to some song that a ditzy piano player was playing. That is, was not. The piano player, a younger woman with voluminous blonde curls was smiling to the crowd as a piano roll scrolled along. Her hands were resting on the wooden frame of the piano as she did not bother to make an effort to mimic playing the piano.

Displayed upon a projector was the image of an American flag. The gymnasium was dark and filled to the brim, and just as one finally believed capacity was reached, more people continued to stream in. It was a claustrophobe’s worst nightmare. Next to the screen stood the mayor and his wife, the latter decked out in a ridiculous Statue of Liberty outfit, even sporting a fake torch.

It was insulting, a pathetic excuse for entertainment, Christophe muttered to himself.

He sat next to Clyde in the back of the gymnasium, not singing, only glaring apprehensively around the entire gymnasium. Clyde looked slightly amused, more so at Christophe’s expression of bewilderment that the townspeople did not find the entire affair offensive. It seemed to undermine their intelligence. It was embarrassing. 

Suddenly, the screen flickered, and the image of an American flag flew past in favor of an advertisement. Two particularly gaudy angels were supporting what appeared to be a corset, while the words “IT’S HEAVENLY TO WEAR Madame Dean’s SPIRAL SUPPORTING CORSET”. 

Christophe watched with abundant amusement as Mayor Broflovski pointed frantically to the screen and motioned for the image to be reversed. Even in the dark, he could sense the fear of public embarrassment radiating from the mayor a mile away. The advertisement gave way to an image of George Washington and two other men Christophe did not recognize, they were all the same. However, much to his mirth and Broflovski’s dread, the image was sideways.

A white slide replaced the corrupted image as a man fumbled around with the film strip, and, thought he could not be certain, Christophe thought the dim outline frantically shuffling about belonged to the owner of the livery stables, Jimbo Kern. 

Finally, Kern apparently solved his dilemma as the white slide gave way to the same image of George Washington in the right position. Mayor Broflovski gave a nod of approval, mainly of relief. 

Thankfully whatever song the townspeople were chanting along to ended, signaled by the applause reverberating off of the gymnasium walls. The curtains shielding the windows of any light were lowered as a few young men deconstructed the screen and walked off the stage, with Mayor Broflovski assuming the screen’s place.

“I’m sure,” he announced in a nasally, particularly dorky voice, “that we are all grateful to my wife, Mrs. Sheila Broflovski, for leading the singing?” 

Applause as Mrs. Broflovski waved to the audience in that ridiculous outfit, looking as though she had just received the most wonderful news of her life. 

“To Bebe Stevens,” Broflovski continued, gesturing to the ditzy lady behind the piano, “our fine player piano player... piano.” 

More applause as she, too, beamed as if she were accepting some great award.

“As the mayor of River City I welcome you, River City...sians, to the Fourth of July exercises set up for the indoors here in Madison Gymnasium, count the weather being so... chancy.”

The weather, was in fact, not chancy at all, as there was not a single cloud in the sky outside, only the sun.

Mayor Broflovski shifted slightly, as if preparing to give a major speech. “Fourscore-“

There was a loud, foreign noise coming from the corner of the gymnasium. At first, it sounded like clapping, but sounded too artificial. Quickly, the audience came to realize that it was coming from the player piano. It was the piano roll continuing to roll rapidly with no music to transcribe. Bebe was staring intently at the mayor, evidently oblivious to the distraction she was inadvertently causing. Finally, she seemed to realize the issue, as her eyes widened and she immediately jammed a hand upon the roll to silence it. She used her other hand to cover her mouth in apologetic embarrassment as she frantically attempted to silence the piano, before finally reaching a solution and glancing, horrified, at the mayor.

Regaining his composure, albeit slightly red faced, the mayor turned his attention back to the congregation before him.

“Fourscore-“

A man, which Christophe came to recognize as Randy Marsh, the grocer, thrust a note in front of the mayors nose. Broflovski gave a grunt as he muttered “What’s this?” and snatched it out of his hand before opening the note. 

He took a moment to read it before announcing uncertainly, “The members of the school board will now present the patriotic tableau.”

Immediately, Marsh and some other man Christophe failed to recognize, a man with long, messy brown hair with a handlebar mustache to match, pulled on Broflovski’s suit jacket in urgency. The four men in the front must have been the school board. Kern, Marsh, the messy man, and another man with short curly brown hair and a prominent nose. 

Broflovski grunted a few times in uncertainty. “Oh. Oh. Uh... the members of the school board will not be presenting the patriotic tableau.”

Pathetic.

“Some disagreement about costumes, I suppose,” he grumbled, and though it was meant to be a sarcastic, light hearted jab, the chorus of “aw”s accompanied by some chortles that preceded his joke indicated that he was not feeling entirely enthused. 

“Now. Might I remind you,” he continued, sounding unexpectedly threatening, “that as our exercises begin, there is to be no tolerance for trouble-making or rabble rousing.”

Christophe raised his eyebrows before turning to Clyde for an answer. “What does he mean by that?”

Clyde gave a short laugh, his eyes remaining on Mayor Broflovski as the sound of concerned gossip began to pick up. “Yeah, last year during something like this, good old Stan Marsh, he lit a firecracker and set it off right behind Mrs. Broflovski. You should’ve seen it, she thought she had been shot. That kid’s good, I tell ya. They still don’t trust him to this day.”

Imagining the mayor’s wife make a colossal dramatized spectacle while the mayor fumbled about foaming at the mouth was enough to make Christophe grin.

Evidently, that short warning sufficed for Mayor Broflovski as he straightened up. “Fourscore... and seven years ago, our-“

Kern ran up on stage and passed him yet another note, earning him an angry scowl as he snatched it violently out of his large hands. “The Pains Fireworks Spectacle,” he read, “the last days of Pomp-ee-eye-“ 

It took a moment for Christophe to register that Broflovski did not know how to pronounce the word Pompeii. And this was their mayor. Typical. 

“- will take place at 9:30, provided it isn’t raining.” He took a pause as he swept a glance across the gymnasium, as if validating himself to ensure that he still had an audience. “It will be over at the Harrison Picnic Park in the far meadow, across the creek from the pesthouse.”

Abruptly, Marsh from the school board and the grocery stood up and turned to look at Broflovski. “What’s all this talk about rain?” He asked, sounding as if he were about to conduct an interrogation. “Didn’t the gazette predict fair?”

It was Kern who rose next. “It sure did, Randy. That’s why we all prepared for a storm.” The two of them laughed before the rather unkempt member of the school board stood up, raising a finger condescendingly to Kern’s face. 

“My paper’s accurate most the time and you know it, Jimbo,” he accused, receiving a bewildered look from Kern in response as he threw up his hands. Meanwhile, the final curly haired school board member joined the argument as well.

“I wouldn’t last long in the banking business being accurate most of the time,” he observed smugly, and just like that, the four men began to bicker like nobody’s business, their voices rising in seconds as fingers were pointed and glowers were exchanged and insults were thrown. 

“Will you members of the school board stop bickering in public!?” Broflovski snapped, for the audience had begun to respond to the commotion by starting a commotion of their own. “Never mind! Fourscore-“

All of the sudden, a loud, booming voice announced “We heard there was a pool table in town!” It was husky and scratchy and unmistakably French. 

Christophe had risen just enough so that he still managed to blend into the crowd, but also ensure his voice was heard. He used Clyde’s shoulder for support as he leapt with surprising agility off of the bleachers and behind them, as Clyde turned around to give him a look. 

“Yeah, that’s what I heard,” an older man contributed as voices rose instantly in fear.

“Just a minute,” Mayor Broflovski growled, clearly unsettled by the commotion he recognized would be difficult to contain. 

A woman with short brown hair adorned with an outfit of extravagant feathers, almost identical to the fashions of Mrs. Sheila Broflovski stood up and demanded “Is it a pool table or isn’t it!?” 

“Will you allow me to get on with the exercises!?” Mayor Broflovski shouted, growing increasingly fragile. 

“We don’t want anymore exercises until we get this pool table matter settled!”

Like mold on bread, more and more concerned citizens stood up and offered their two cents to each other. Christophe, who had been sporting a simple green jacket, was now furiously shaking it off of his arms while Clyde watched him turn it inside out to reveal a loud red marching uniform with black stripes on the shoulders and down the middle, topped off with a gold braid. It was smart.

“LET’S PROTECT OUR CHILDREN!” Christophe shouted, putting a hand to his mouth to amplify the sound as he continued to shove the uniform on his body. 

To emphasize importance, as well as ensure everyone heard, Clyde stood up, putting a hand on his knee as he echoed “WE’VE GOTTA PROTECT OUR CHILDREN!” 

It was simply remarkable how the level of panic and volume skyrocketed through the roof at that single idea of preserving the children’s youth. 

“RESIST SIN AND CORRUPTION!” Christophe announced, buttoning his uniform quickly.

“RESIST SIN AND CORRUPTION!!” Clyde echoed once again, as more shouts of agreement reverberated off the gymnasium walls. 

As Clyde turned back around in preparation to announce whatever fear mongering statement Christophe conjured next, he noticed Christophe had disappeared and saw him running to the other side of the bleachers, carrying a hat.

Christophe stood near the end of the bleachers and bellowed as loud as he could, “LET’S SMITE THAT DEVIL AND KEEP OUR YOUNG BOYS PURE!!”

Even without Christophe shouting directly behind him, Clyde caught his unmistakable accent from across the gym as he announced quite simply “PURE BOYS!!” 

Another wave of agreement. 

Everything had fallen into place. Christophe couldn’t suppress a grin of greed as he spent one last moment on the sidelines before darting through the middle of the gym floor and leaping onto the stage, moving Mayor Broflovski forcefully out of the way. Even through the concealing blur of motion, that look of pure malice was unmistakable.

“Folks, listen!” He yelled, throwing his arms out to the congregation as he prepared to drop the biggest bombshell of his plan. “May I have your attention, please! Attention please!”

Instantly the angry shouts of the fearful melted away as all focus was now on Christophe. 

“I can deal with the trouble, friends, with the wave of this hand-“ he lifted his left hand up as he began to speechify in that same half-rambling, half-melodic manner, “this very hand!” He gave it a large slap with his other hand as he grabbed the hat he had kept stowed away under the bleachers. 

With nary a hint of reluctance, he pummeled his first right through the hat, tearing the top off. “Do not think of me any lesser,” he announced as he discarded a part of the hat and tugged at it to reveal a large, standard marching band hat, red just like his uniform, complete with flashy red and purple feathers at the top, “I am Taupe, the Professeur.” He shoved the hat on top of his head as he continued “And I’m here to organize the River City boy’s band.”

Vocalizing and physically imitating a drumroll, he leapt off the stage before running to one end of the gymnasium and standing in front of a group of wide eyed faces. “Oh, think, my friends, how can any pool table hope to compete with a gold trombone?” He preceded to slide his arm back and forth as he vocalized the sound of a trombone before jogging to the other side of the gymnasium.

“Remember my friends what a handful of trumpet players did to the famous fabled walls of Jericho!” He had not an idea, of course. He had spent the previous night in his hotel room leafing begrudgingly through an assortment of religious testimonials and books, hoping to find something to rile up the crowd. He lost track of how many times he had muttered “I need a drink” after forcing himself to read such boring and personally useless material. “Oh billiard parlor walls come a-tumbling down!”

He darted to the middle of the gymnasium now, watching intently as faces of fear melted into hope and eagerness. They knew he was their saving grace, and he knew he had them right by the dick.

“Well a band will do it, my friends, oh yes, I say a boy’s band, do you hear me?” He ran straight between the school board members who had refused to move from the stage as he leapt onto his soapbox once again. “I said River City’s got to have a boy’s band, and I mean she needs it today!”

He gestured to himself and then out to the audience as he declared “But with the great Professeur Taupe on hand, River City’s going to have her boy’s band. As sure as the lord made little green apples, that band is going to be in uniform.”

Just as he had hoped, hopefulness turned to excitement as parents, grandparents and children, friends and family exchanged joyous looks, all of them reveling at the mere thought of sporting uniforms. 

“Charlie, Willie, Teddy, Fred,” he pointed off, moving his arm around the group with each name, “and you see the glitter of crashing symbols-“ he moved his hands in a circle to outline the shape “-you hear the thunder of rolling drums and the shimmer of trumpets-“ he lifted his hands to his face before letting out a bellowing “TUM TA-DA!”

“And you feel something akin to the electric thrill I once enjoyed,” he nodded, firmly placing his hands upon his chest. As degrading as his exaggerations were to his dignity, the audience was loving it as they held onto his every word. “When Gilmore, Pat Conway, The Great Cleator, W.C. Handey, and John Phillip Sousa... all came to town on the very same historic day!”

Some heads were turning to each other as a few people managed to sacrifice their attention to whisper some words of excitement. However, they were too entranced to say anything. They did not want to miss a single word.

Christophe took a breath before resorting to song, “Seventy six trombones led the big parade, with a hundred and ten cornets close at hand.” He moved his hand along in front of him as he counted, visualizing “They were followed by rows and rows of the finest virtuosos, the cream of every famous band!”

Once again he travelled to a group of awestruck townspeople as he sang on, “Seventy six trombones caught the morning sun, with a hundred and ten cornets right behind.” He continued to make a fool out of himself, gesturing along to every lyric, stressing the importance of visuals so as to ensure everyone was following along. “There were more than a thousand reeds springing up like weeds, there were horns of every shape and kind.”

He sauntered over to the opposite side of the gym, incorporating some fancy footwork along the way. Well, it wasn’t fancy at all, a simple grapevine, but it was enough to shake any suspicions about his skill in regards to dance. “There were copper bottom timpani in horse platoons, thundering, thundering all along the way. Double bell euphoniums and big bassoons, each bassoon having its big fat say!”

He approached a group of girls sitting on the floor, grabbing the hand of the youngest in particular. “There were fifty mounted cannon in the battery,” he sang as he pulled her up, the girl looking as though she were touching the hand of an idol, “thundering, thundering louder than before.”

The group of girls began to march around him as he chanted “Clarinets of every size and trumpets who would improvise a full octave higher than the score!” 

Like some sort of strange marching magician, he pulled out a black baton and pointed it confidently towards the ceiling as he marched the group of children around the gymnasium floor. He began to kick his legs up and they followed his lead, and he had to admit that these kids were not the most horrid dancers he had ever witnessed. He marched around in a circle as the townspeople began to clap in rhythm and encouragement, and eventually adults began to filter into the growing crowd on the floor.

And just as Christophe predicted, they too joined in song as they began to march. “Seventy-six trombones led the counterpoint,” they chorused as Christophe let them do the dancing while he motioned with his arms and did the occasional tap of the foot, “while a hundred and ten cornets blazed away. To the rhythm of ‘Heart! Heart! Heart!’ all the kids began to march, and they’re marching still right today!”

Filing away, the adults returned to their seats as they exchanged looks of admiration among each other. They enamored Christophe, even as he made an imbecile out of himself, pretending to use his baton as a flute and pantomiming a trombone. They enamored him as he ran up to the stage and blindly raised his arms in a conducting motion, secretly, or not, he supposed, not to himself, knew very little on the science of conducting. They enamored him as they stood up and pretended to take part of the dream he was setting out before him. They enamored him when the group of children began to perform a pantomimed chorus of flutes. They absolutely loved him.

As he watched more and more of the townspeople filter in to dance their respected mimicked solo, he spotted someone else sitting at the piano now, someone else with a posh air of superiority about them, someone else with hair that looked like a poodle’s, someone else that was a single guy librarian music teacher. Pretty Boy.

And of course, he’d be damned if he didn’t seize this opportunity. 

Quite the spectacular dance number was unfurling in the gymnasium, and Christophe had to maneuver his way through throngs of dancers as he snuck his way to the corner of the gymnasium and hid behind the piano. After a moment he slowly rose, trying not to make any sudden movements do not as to bring attention to himself. Though he could not see Pretty Boy’s pretty little face, only the back of his head and body, he knew Pretty Boy was not having it. The slow rise and fall of his shoulders, the unmistakable sign of a sigh, proved his hypothesis. And yet, he thought as he felt a grin coming on as he sunk lower once more, he knew that his plan was working, even on him.

Even Christophe found himself surprised at the profound extent of his work and how it had affected the townspeople. Kick-line after kick-line dissolved into one another, as boys kicked their legs and pretended to be playing the most intense trombone solo Christophe had ever seen, while girls swung their hips and kicked their legs and did all sorts of elaborate footwork. 

One particular boy caught Christophe’s eye, and it took him a moment to realize it was the boy with the black hair and gentle blue eyes he had seen in town for his welcoming. That boy was on the stage now, where Christophe had stood just minutes ago, and he seemed to be leading the dance, kicking his legs and doing graceful twirls while a select few swung from the ratty old gym ropes that hung from the ceiling. Christophe moved out from behind the piano and to the back of the gymnasium to get a better look. The boy was practically leading the crowd, as if it were an extremely theatric version of follow the leader. He would make a great drum major, if the band were not a fraud. He would have to store that information for later on.

Deciding to come back into the spotlight, Christophe leapt in front of the crowd and led them out the doors of the gymnasium. He shared a short glance with Potential Drum Major who followed behind, along with the rest of the gymnasium. 

It was as if the band had already been formed, he could hear every instrument he described as he zig zagged his way down the high school steps and onto the streets of River City, admittedly unsure of whether he was to stay in a straight line or wander around spontaneously.

Gregory, his mother, and Scott were the last people left in the gymnasium. He could absolutely not believe his eyes— no, he could. The theatrics brought on by that Professor Taupe were all the work of the townspeople themselves. They bought into his storytelling, and his limitations were their strong suit. Gregory noticed that Taupe seemed to initiate the spectacle by riling them up before allowing them to do the rest of his work. It was cheap. But, perhaps what was even more cheap than that, was the townspeople’s failure to recognize a con-man when they saw one.

In frustration, Gregory stood up and listened to the voice tickling in his throat to follow the parade, and he did so, marching angrily out of the doors of the gymnasium, allowing his mother and brother to amble behind.


	6. Chapter 6

As he stepped into the sunlight, the commotion of the spontaneous parade was still as prominent as ever as he followed behind in an angry gait. Even through the sea of bobbing heads and outstretched arms and kicking legs, Gregory could spot the red figure in the very front, pumping his arm up and down as if he were leading some sort of revolution rather than a band. The way he pranced around like some sort of confused goat was rather humorous, but he could not enjoy it to the full extent, aware of how dangerous the grip he had on the city was. 

Just as he thought the parade would never end, Gregory noticed a break in the flow of the march. Though he could not be entirely sure, as he was at a considerable distance away, further restricted by the townspeople, he watched as Taupe appeared to sling his arm up in a throwing motion and unexpectedly dart out of the way and onto the curb of the streets.

Christophe, sensing it was safe to pass the torch to someone else and allow himself to be dismissed, threw his baton into the air before swerving away from the crowd. He watched with satisfaction as Drum Major caught it, all natural shock sweeping his face as he stared at the baton and then Christophe before continuing to lead the procession. 

The boy held the baton and uneasily pumped it into the air and back, just as he had seen Professor Taupe do it. That man was intriguing. He certainly knew how to grab the attention of River City, which was a seemingly impossible feat. The town liked their gossip, sure, but typically moved onto other topics as soon as they surfaced. 

So intent on keeping the same energy Taupe provided, the boy didn’t even realize he was being chased by some man who looked intent on stealing the baton. He then remembered there had to be yet another reason, and it hit him. Likely, he was still pissed about the firecracker incident a year ago and sought to achieve any vengeance he could. A quick second glance revealed that, of course, the angry smack of footsteps belonged to Mackey. Constable Mackey. Mackey had always had it out for him, the first to pounce on his every move and accuse him of stirring up trouble. 

Quick thinking, the boy darted out of the day and onto the sidewalk, sparing a few glances to get a check to see if Mackey was still on his tail. He was, of course, but thankfully it was only him, the rest of the town seemed to march on fine without a specific leader. The boy continued to run with the baton firmly in his grip, unsure of how that was necessarily a crime. Taupe had thrown it and he had managed to catch it, end of discussion.

Splitting from the trail rather early on, the four school board members and the mayor stood outside of the public library, craning their necks to get a glimpse of the parade. 

“There’s nothing like a brass band to stir a fellow up,” Randy remarked after no one had said anything. Relations were strained within the school board, and they had been observing the march in a comfortable silence that was not necessarily tense, but felt unnatural regardless. “When I hear those trombones...”

Jimbo nodded in agreement, declaring “That’s them peck-horns that really does it.” 

It was rare, very rare to see all of the members agreeing with each other with no hint of sarcasm or passive aggression. And yet, as every man imagined the forest of trombones, the sea of cornets, the sun glinting on every inch of brass, the sound of a thousand souls combined in one fantastic melody vibrating beneath the streets, they knew there was nothing they could disagree on. It was a dream that was on its way to becoming a reality.

“Bet’cha Estherville ain’t got anything like it,” Stuart bragged, thinking that River City finally had something to be proud of- something real.

Richard shook his head. “Or even Des Moines.”

It was Gerald’s turn to contribute. “I’ll stake my River City band against any town west of Chicago,” he announced rather proudly. 

“What band?”

Gregory had approached the group of men, inquisitive to know their reasoning as to why they were on the sidelines watching instead of being absorbed into the theatrics. He had thought, foolishly, he supposed, that perhaps there was a hint of hope for River City and they may have been on a personal strike against Taupe as well. He believed that if the mayor saw through Taupe’s transparency he would be run out of town, left to leech upon some other gullible town, leaving the River City townspeople to return to their stubborn, gossipy, individual lives. However, he had overheard the mayor boasting about “his” band, and it was clear they were spectators, not strikers.

Mayor Broflovski turned to look at him, fear glinting in his eyes as he knew he was about to be proved wrong in some unknown approaching tirade. “Honestly,” Gregory cut him off sharply, placing his hands upon his hips and shaking his head. “A bunch of grown men!”

He brushed past them brusquely, feeling all 5 pairs of eyes upon him. Let them stare, the told himself heatedly. He paused at the steps before turning around to face them. “Along comes this fly-by-night salesman,” he reprimanded, furious at their insensitivity, “and you’re all taken in.” He gave them the privilege of one last angry glower before turning and marching up the steps and into the library. He hoped that someway, somehow, he had managed to get some sort of inkling of a message through their thick skulls. 

“He’s right!” Gerald leapt to his feet and placed a palm against his forehead, agitated he had managed to let the damn fool get to him and brainwash him into his little ceremony. “The man’s a spellbinder!”

Now, the school board had leapt to their feet as well and stood behind their mayor as he continued on fervently “I haven’t seen Iowa people get so excited since the night Frank Gotch and Strangler Lewis lay on the mat for three and a half hours without moving a muscle!” He pointed to an invisible spot on the pavement as each man leaned in behind his shoulders. “Oh, that was exciting,” he added eagerly as the unified looks of intensity gave way to agreement, each of them nodding. 

Gerald came to his senses as he shook his and snapped “Never mind. Men, this calls for emergency action!”

At once the men recoiled as if they had heard a child swear or watch a glass plate shatter. Mayor Broflovski pointed to the general vicinity of where the snake had marched away. “I want that man’s credentials,” he snarled, and opened his mouth to continue his plan of action when he was cut off by the sound of frantic footsteps.

A man was darting directly towards them, and the school board came to realize he was being chased. As he practically bulldozed Richard and Stuart over, a crazed, fearful look prominent in his eyes, Gerald let out a gasp and threw up his hands.

“Grab that hoodlum! He almost blew up Mrs. Broflovski!” He ordered, thinking back to that day the boy caused his wife to shout “I’M SHOT!” and had to be dragged away. He watched as a red movement darted into his peripherals as Taupe approached them, giving a skeptical glance that morphed into bewilderment as no good Stan Marsh bumped into him. 

Christophe swallowed a growl as Drum Major nearly ran him over and knocked him off his feet. He had been chased by the looks of the winded man next to him, big head and glasses and an overall cowardly demeanor. Suddenly he sensed he could gain the approval of the school board and mayor in front of him, all of which were in the midst of a tug of war between who to glower at, him or the boy. He grabbed the boy’s shoulders firmly in order to prevent him from running away.

“Great honk, let me go!” The boy cried as Christophe silently pushed him towards the cowardly chaser who grabbed his arm, allowing Christophe to drop his grip.

“Much obliged, Professor, m’kay,” he wavered as he led the boy to the major. “Have to make an example of this one. Ringleader you know, m’kay? Everything he does, the gang does.”

The boy, Stan, Christophe remembered his name, looked more peeved than scared as he finally gave up the fight and ceased his resistance. Christophe gave a short nod to confirm he was listening, wondering what sort of gang would ever want to roam around in this peckerwood town. 

“You wild kid, you!” Gerald snarled at him. “Hanging around my oldest son? Your own father is in the school board!” 

With slight amusement, Christophe came to realize that the only man in the group who did not seem cautious or angered about the “hoodlum” was Marsh, his father. He only looked on indifferently, as if he had been told he had a bit of food on his shirt rather than that his son was the ringleader of a gang. 

After the mayor reiterated that Stan was a wild kid, Stan glared back at him, arguing “What’d I do?”

“Tagging around Main Street after my oldest boy last Sunday,” the mayor explained as he turned to his band of cronies. 

Stan shook his head and shouted “I wasn’t tagging!”

Broflovski jabbed a finger to his nose. “Don’t you counter-dict me!” Even though Christophe had been born in France and still to this day made the occasional awkward phrasing of words, he felt that the mayor struggled even more than he did, and a native English speaker at that. 

“We were just walking together,” Stan argued, swinging his baton arm as if it were a weapon, “great honk!”

Immediately Gerald reached for his hat as the school board exchanged looks of astonishment, save for Randy, as if he had made a personal threat to the mayor of their beloved town.

“You watch your phraseology!” Gerald demanded after recollecting himself, his cheeks beginning to flush in raw anger. “I know what you were doing! My little Ike saw you! Now you stay away from my oldest boy, or you’ll hear from me ‘till the end of your sweet time!” 

Apparently, Broflovski seemed to remember that Christophe existed as he gave a small start before approaching him slowly with narrowed eyes. “Taupe, I’ll talk to you Monday morning about this band thing right here in City Hall.” He gestured to what was, in fact, not City Hall at all, but rather the library. “Ten o’clock, sharp.” 

Dismissing himself, Broflovski carried his stupidity elsewhere as Christophe paid him a respectful nod, watching his herd of authority follow after him, nodding to them as well. He noticed a shuffle and watched as the coward, which he came to realize was somehow the constable (thanks to his badge on his striped vest to hide behind) began to lead Stan away, who had almost forgotten to be mad. Christophe leapt over to him and grabbed his arm, saying “Now constable, I will be responsible for the boy.”

Stan gave him an incredulous look, almost as if he wanted to be taken away to spare any trouble, but Christophe narrowed his eyes to indicate it was no trouble at all. 

“Oh, you don’t know this kid, m’kay,” the constable declared as if he were defending himself — Christophe noticed he had a rather annoying vocal crutch of “m’kay”s — “he’s tough! Probably got his gang waiting around the corner!”

“Well, I’ll be careful,” Christophe responded as he put a cautious hand in front of Stan’s chest, as if preventing him from pouncing upon them to entertain the constable’s disillusions. He hoped his comment had not reeked too strongly of sarcasm. He grabbed Stan’s arm once more and led him to the curb.

“Stan, I want to talk to you about the band,” he explained as he sat down upon the sidewalk, motioning for Stan to do the same. He noticed that the constable lurked behind them, a bit too close for comfort, leaning forward in case any top secret confidentialities were about to be exchanged.

Stan noticed that Christophe had an accent- well, he knew that, listening to his speech in the gymnasium, but it felt strange to be called “Sten”. Nevertheless he reluctantly sat down next to Christophe, rolling his eyes. “Aw gee, Professor,” he groaned, “that’s for the little kids.”

“No, I don’t want to talk to you about playing in the band,” Christophe scoffed, sounding as though it were absolutely asinine for Stan to even recommend the idea. “Look. You are mechanically minded, aren’t you?”

Thankfully the kid nodded yes. “Did you ever do anything with...ah...” he faltered, rubbing his hands together as he forced the puzzle pieces to fit, “perpetual motion?”

Stan paused for a moment, looking around before nodding uncertainty. “Yeah, I nearly had it a couple times,” he told him, growing more confident. Christophe was grateful his plan was working. He could sense Stan’s apprehension wearing off as they began to converse, only a slight touch of reluctance hung in the air no thanks to the constable hovering over them.

He grabbed his arm in feigned excitement. “You did!” He exclaimed, before shooting the constable a look in order to formally invite him into the conversation. “Well.” He clapped him on the arm, “You are my man.” 

Rising, he slipped the baton from Stan’s fingers and into his own. Stan didn’t even pay a second thought, just continued to look at him. “Do you realize no one has ever invented a music holder for a...” He faltered once more as a flurry of instruments were listed off in his mind. He looked down at the baton resting near his hips. “A marching piccolo player?” He held the baton to his lips and drummed his finger against the shiny black wood as he stepped on and off of the curb. “There is no place to hang the music,” he demonstrated as he watched Stan’s eyes widen in the sudden realization that he could invent the uninvented, and perhaps earn a reputation other than a trouble maker.

“Great honk!” He exclaimed, pulling himself up quickly. He paused, looking around as he pondered “Wonder where I could get some wire from,” as if the wire lurked in between the blades of neatly cropped grass or entangled in the shrubbery neatly surrounding the library. 

Christophe thrust the baton into Stan’s possession, who looked down at him and back up again as if he did not have permission, just as he did before. “Look in your cellar,” he suggested. “That is where people keep wire.” 

He would have let him go, allowing him to continue running off had he not seen the constable tense up and prepare to chase after him. In an instant Christophe snatched the constable’s arm, shouting “Stan!” so as to draw him back. It was evident the constable needed more convincing. 

“Yes sir?” 

Stan retreated, giving Christophe a look of earnest confusion as Christophe flicked a glance towards the sound of approaching footsteps. A crowd of teenagers was about to enter the library, and Christophe, recognizing an opportunity when he saw one, used such a chance to tell the constable in a low voice “Now constable, I will show you how to break up a gang. Ah, young man!”

He pointed to what stood out to him most, a head of unruly orange curls. He motioned for the boy to come forward. “Sir?” When it was evident he was not about to come any closer, Christophe approached the boy who looked absolutely bewildered as to why someone would pay him any mind. “What is your name?”

There was a pause, and the boy answered “Kyle?” apprehensively. He walked up to Christophe, and Christophe paid him the routine analyzation he paid everything. Messy red hair, a prominent nose, sharp hazel eyes, much like his own, freckles. A nagging suspicion whispered the boy looked familiar somehow, as if he had seen him before. Passed him on the street, maybe. He seemed to be slightly reluctant, not of caution but rather curiosity, as if he wanted to analyze who was speaking to him before making sure the coast was clear. Christophe could relate. 

“I didn’t have any idea you were speaking to me,” he defended himself, looking almost honored to be singled out. He gave a chuckle before exclaiming “Egads.” These people and their catchphrases. 

“Do you know Stan Marsh?” Christophe asked, hoping the slight annoyance he felt was not displayed upon his face. Normally he could control his emotions to an extent, but often found himself slipping up with a telling expression without notice. He had to work on that, he told himself. 

Kyle flashed some form of a knowing grin to Stan, placing his hands behind his back. “Well...”

“Stan,” Christophe interrupted him, signaling him to come closer with his finger. All the while the constable was watching cautiously, bracing himself for whatever surprise lurked in the shadows. “This is Kyle. Escort the young man home, yeah?”

Stan looked somehow startled at the idea as he looked Kyle in the eyes, but Christophe felt that they had met previously. Kyle gave a quick smile that suddenly melted away as he knit his eyebrows together. “Only except I’m not going home,” he told Christophe, “I have to go the library. Egads!” Stan hadn’t said anything, nor had he moved. He kept staring at Kyle, as if he didn’t know the answer to a difficult arithmetic question and time was closing in. 

Throwing a glance towards the constable, Christophe grabbed Kyle’s wrist, responding “Well, escort the young man by way of the library.” He grabbed Stan’s wrist as well and began to lead them up the stairs, the two boys sharing a very personal, confused look before Christophe paused and dropped his grip. “Aha,” he grunted, turning to reach into his pocket. He reached for Stan’s hand and placed some coins in his palm, shooting him a prolonged look that quite clearly read “don’t mess this up”. “By way of the candy kitchen,” he corrected, pushing Stan gently on the back to get him moving.

Turning around, Stan looked at the money and back at Christophe before hesitating and doing it again. “Yes sir,” he said, a hint of laughter rumbling in his voice. Kyle looked at the money with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. 

Suddenly, Stan hesitated once more, and Christophe noticed a hint of concern cloud his face. “Um... do I have to?”

“Oh, you have to,” Christophe grinned as he turned Kyle to face Stan. He was not about to let him escape from his clutches with the possibility of the constable breathing down his neck. The constable had not said a word through the entire exchange, just looked at the three of them in heed. Christophe knew he was itching to intervene, but didn’t know how. Good. 

Finally, Stan seemed to make up his mind as he began to sport a grin strikingly similar to Clyde’s: the same goofy, sincere undertones. Perhaps not as goofy as Clyde, but the same sense of relaxation was evident in both of them. Christophe wondered if they got along well. “Yes sir!” He confirmed, grabbing a surprised Kyle by the hand and practically dragging him away. Kyle looked back at Christophe almost thankfully before deciding he was tired of being dragged and picked up the pace himself, and the two of them disappeared down the sidewalk. The crowd of teenagers that had been watching the exchange unfold finally crowded back into the library, evidently finished with their eavesdropping. 

With his mission accomplished, Christophe turned to the constable smugly and began to walk away when the constable spoke.

“Professor,” he observed, “you’re a pretty bright young fellow, m’kay.” 

That was true.

“But, you made a couple of mistakes.”

Of course.

Christophe tried to hide the approaching irritation that yanked at his heart — or, perhaps it was shock. He tried to keep his voice steady as he allowed himself to be subject to the useless criticisms of an awkward middle aged man who hid behind the mask of authority.

“Oh?” Christophe placed his hands on his hips, bracing for what was next.

“The mayor owns that billiard parlor and that new pool table, m’kay.” 

Okay, alright. That was not too bad. That was something, yes. He was pitting the entire town against its mayor. But, what was so terrible about it? He could simply leave town, perhaps stall a few more days to collect the money, but yes, he could simply catch a train when things began to get rough. And it made for an entertaining scenario to picture Broflovski, yet another coward who used his status of authority as a personality trait, bumbling about and attempting to calm everyone down to no avail. 

Yet, the constable had said he made a couple of mistakes, not just one. As the constable turned to amble back to his destination, Christophe lunged towards him and yanked him back by the arm. “You don’t say?” He asked intensely. “What was my other mistake?”

After the constable gave him a fearful look, he attempted to disguise it with some half baked expression of confidence. In the end, he looked as though he had hurt himself as he contorted his face and pointed down the street. 

“That was Kyle. He’s the mayors oldest boy.”

And with that, Christophe was left to his own devices as the constable ambled away. He adjusted his hat uncomfortably and let out a whistle as he thought of the shitstorm he had just unknowingly dove into, head first.


	7. Chapter 7

Outside of the place that was Harrison Picnic Park, marked by a loud sign over a wooden gate, if not the commotion of children yelling and adults chattering and loud music tinkering in the air, stood Christophe. He stood leaning against the post, arms crossed, donning his green suit and a thoughtful scowl as he scanned the streets for any stragglers. Well. One straggler in particular.

Loud chattering marked the presence of a group of ladies, all adorned in ridiculous outfits with puffy feathers and extravagant embroidery. Mrs. Broflovski was among them, wearing a ridiculous red shawl and matching turban to boot.

“Good evening ladies,” Christophe greeted as he approached them. Mrs. Broflovski glowered at him and shifted away, as if he were about to spread some sort of contagious ailment to her if she so much as heard him speak. A few other of her followers began to giggle, particularly at him, as if he had told the funniest joke they had ever had the pleasure of hearing in all the time of their insignificant lives.

He had not even heard the group of footsteps behind them as he wondered once more how people could live their lives in such oblivion.

“Just a minute, Professor Taupe.”

The southern drawl was of course Kern’s, and Christophe found himself face to face with the school board. He looked at them with earnest curiosity, as if he were utterly dumbfounded as to why they were stopping him, but he had a feeling he knew what was next.

Marsh proved his suspicions. “Uh, sorry, Professor,” he told him in that bored voice of his, “but we’re the school board and we need your credentials.”

Damn it all. Christophe stalled by patting his suit, pretending as though he had the golden ticket they were looking for somewhere close at hand. He didn’t, of course. He was not the artistic kind and thought that perhaps the suspicions would not arrive for a few more days at earliest. He was at their mercy if he did not think fast.

“Academic certificates?” McCormick asked, pointing at him.

“Nothing of the kind,” Tweak exclaimed smugly as Christophe ran out of pockets to smack.

“We need letters and papers,” Randy suggested, pointing back to McCormick.

Jimbo stuck his arm out as Christophe finally stopped fooling himself. “Make him put up a bond.”

A bond was not good news. Christophe looked at the school board quickly, thinking, thinking, which dumbass was next, who would his target be, what’s next, they can be distracted easily, can’t they, yes, anything, just think quickly, nothing major, you’ve done this before.

“What am I hearing?” He proclaimed, placing a hand upon his chest to indicate surprise. He strode over to McCormick, thinking he may be likely to take the bait. Kern was certainly full of himself, Marsh didn’t seem too unintelligent, just stupid, and he hadn’t heard Tweak say enough to formulate an opinion on him and spot many weaknesses.

“You sir,” he nodded as McCormick cocked an eyebrow skeptically. He placed a hand on him to get close and personal with him, everything he normally despised, in order to indicate he was on their side. He fumbled in his pants pocket and pulled out a small, metallic oval and blew into it. It was a pitch pipe.

“Say ‘ice cream’,” he directed in a deep, sustained tune to the note of the pipe pipe. It was not quite singing nor talking.

McCormick shook his head and threw up his hands. “Well, uh, ‘ice cream’,” he said in his twangy drawl, “but I don’t sing it, if that’s what you mean.”

Christophe shook his head, putting up a hand. “Talk, then.” He reverted to the pitch he had just sustained. “Down here.”

He had hoped that by recommending to his mother they make a point to visit the fireworks festival, then perhaps Scott would finally have some sort of fun. Gregory and his family entered the park when he stopped in his tracks.

He recognized the man in the green suit and barbershop hat right away as the salesman, Taupe. He was talking to the school board. No. He was singing to the school board. He strained to head over the commotion of the townspeople, knowing well he should let him be and carry on his futile attempts, whatever they may be, but he felt as though he had a moral obligation to listen in.

“Ice cream,” Christophe reiterated, glancing at McCormick expectantly.

McCormick glanced down at his feet and at his fellow school board members, who were watching as though they were in the midst of a scientific breakthrough. “Ice cream,” he sang in the same sustained pitch, though a tad too quickly.

“Talk slow,” Christophe commanded through song.

McCormick gave another “ice cream”, this time slow and sustained.

Christophe opened his hands to the school board as everyone shared fascinated looks. “You see?” He grinned. “Singing is just sustained talking. Now you sir,” he added, regarding Tweak.

Tweak caught on, far quicker than Christophe imagined himself, as he, too, gave an “ice cream” but in a different pitch that Christophe recognized as a harmony.

“Now you sir,” he nodded, pointing to Marsh, who also surprised him and gave another variation of “ice cream”.

“Now you sir!”

Another ice cream from Kern. Christophe knew he had sufficiently distracted them and taken their puny authoritarian minds off of any thought of credentials. He hadn’t even noticed the growing crowd around them until their little melody was well received with clapping and shouting.

Mrs. Broflovski was watching with a bemused look upon her face. “Ladies, from now on,” Christophe declared as he walked over to her little posse, “you will never see one of those men without the other three.” He threw up three fingers as her posse exchanged curious mumblings, but Mrs. Broflovski merely shook her head.

“Professor, you’re wrong,” she told him, her tone sounding as though he had made a foolish mistake regarding even the most common knowledge. “Why, they’ve hated each other for fifteen years!” One of her followers, the ditzy piano player, Christophe realized, Baby, was it, or something of the sort, gave a nod as if she knew all about it. He doubted she was much over her twenties, much less knew how long their apparent rivalry had lasted.

The harmonious melody of more “ice cream”s proved them wrong.

When realizing his mother and Scott had been lurking behind him and pausing as well, Gregory told her gently “You go ahead, mother. I’ll be there in a minute,” and took a few steps forward as they wandered away. The members of the school board were shaking each other’s hands and chattering eagerly, a sight he thought he would have never seen. It was common knowledge that they got along as well as jam and pickled beef. That is, to say, not well.

Though he knew he could escape from their suspicions right now, as they were all busy applauding each other and talking about well I’ll be, you sounded great, I didn’t know I had it in me, oh, don’t be so modest, etcetera, Christophe could sense there was room for a little more security. He looked around before singing cautiously,

“How can there be...”

He gestured to the school board and raised his eyebrows to egg them on as they turned around to listen. The “any...” that followed was from Marsh, and all at once they erupted into a chorus,

“...sin in sincere?”

It was remarkable, how they managed to sound, well, great was the only word Christophe could think of, as it was truest and simplest. They sounded as though they had rehearsed the song during multiple instances, each of them at a different time with a different voice part, and now they came together to reprise it in answer to an offhand suggestion.

Christophe looked over his shoulder to make sure any passerby’s had their ears open as they continued,

“Where is the good in good fun?”

Though he admittedly found it hard to tear his eyes away from the spectacle, particularly watching Marsh make an attempt to quiet down Kern, who had proved himself to be quite the loudmouth, he could not ignore the fact that Pretty Boy was standing only a few feet away, a skeptical, cautious look smeared right on his mug. Christophe moved past Kern as they sang in the growing distance,

“Your apprehension confuse me, dear.”

Pretty Boy noticed Christophe’s presence and gave him a glare as Christophe touched his arm. “Your apprehensions confuse me, dear,” he told him, trying his damnedest to put on his most convincing smooth talking voice.

Gregory thought Taupe could not prove himself to be any more of a grade A scumbag, and yet he managed to prove him wrong. He had made no attempts* to conceal his flirts, and rather acted as though he wanted it to be painstakingly obvious, the way he looked at him with a messy grin and sharp eyes and a cocked eyebrow. Refusing him the right to evoke a response out of him, Gregory simply walked away as the school-board tuned barbershop quartet sang on.

“Puzzle and mystify.”

That prick ignored him once again, taking the cowards route and walking away. Christophe was not going to give up the fight. No. It was not a fight. He would not give Pretty Boy the satisfaction of dubbing his attempts to pursue him with such strong language. He was not going to give up his attempts, no, but rather get what he wanted by any means necessary. He gave the quartet one last peek before rubbing his hands together and quickly tailing his target. As he walked past them, he noticed Mrs. Broflovski and her posse exchanging floored expressions. Hopefully he had begun to ice any tensions that may continue to grow in the battle of Broflovski vs. Taupe.

The quartet was on a roll. As they sang, more and more people turned their attention to them, and the park had grown quiet as everyone watched the miracle. The miracle of four men who disagreed at the most obscure comments unite and lend their voices to the public for their entertainment.

“Mystify, tell me,   
What can be fair in farewell, dear?  
Why, one single star shines above.  
How can there be any sin in sincere?”

All four of them changed positions, walking in a uniform line over to a more open area of the park.

“Aren’t we sincerely in love?   
Oh, we’re in love!”

They ended their performance, all the while exchanging wide eyed, slack jawed glances, not quite certain that they had managed to pull off such a grand feat.

A few loud booms echoed through the treetops, vibrating in his bones and beneath his feet as Christophe caught up to Pretty Boy. Once again, he was not making any indication that he knew of Christophe’s presence. The prime indicator was his stiff gait, which, as Christophe had observed, seemed to come naturally. It was evident Pretty Boy was trying to make an attempt to shake him off his trail, as they were walking deep into the park, trees casting shadows upon the grass and obstructing any ideal view of the fireworks as they continued to vibrate through the earth.

Tipping his hat in greeting had unsurprisingly failed. Just as he had walked in front of Pretty Boy and waved his hat to him on Main Street, Pretty Boy had only backtracked and moved around him, moving not a muscle in his face.

“I don’t suppose you live alone or anything-“ Christophe inquired as he caught up to him again, resorting to walking backwards to get a good look at his face.

“No.”

Bastard.

“I have some wonderful caramels over the hotel,” he insisted, pointing in a random direction. Pretty Boy stopped, and he knew it had worked. Not in a “the caramels had him sold” way, no, but rather in a “they both knew this conversation was pointless and his attempts to get a rise out of him were being acknowledged and he was about to get reprimanded for doing so” way.

Any reaction was a good reaction. Progress is progress.

“Mister Taupe,” Pretty Boy declared poignantly, his tone indicating he was on the brink of launching into an epic speech.

“Oh please, please,” Christophe cooed as he shook his head and removed his hat, holding it to his chest. There was a beat of silence as he couldn’t help the mischievous grin that begged to creep upon his face. He knew he would be lucky if he didn’t get decked in the face, even by this prudent snob, for what he was about to say. He maintained a steady gaze as he corrected him, “Professeur Taupe.”

He made a point to pin point every single movement in the moment that followed. The widening of the eyes, the subtle intake of air, the curving of the eyebrows, the furrowing of the brow, the slight moving back of the head. “Professor!” Pretty Boy repeated haughtily, and Christophe had to put a hand to his mouth to hide the laugh that was beginning to surface as he couldn’t get over how offended and ridiculous he looked. “Of what!?”

He moved his forward to indicate that he was about to speak, biting down to distract himself from the desperate desire to laugh right in his face, but he knew he was in for it when Pretty Boy continued on. “At what college do they give a degree for accosting men like a Saturday night rowdy accosting women at a public dance hole?”

Expect the unexpected. That was the mantra Christophe had followed for many years. He always stayed on his toes and advocated his philosophy to neanderthals who did not think with their brains (their dicks, rather, he always said).

The current instant was yet another one of those moments where he had not expected what was coming towards him. He realized, with equal parts agitation and interest, and, he did not like to admit, a hint of respect, that Pretty Boy was just as analytical as he was. With the brief encounters they had together so far, Pretty Boy has observed and uncovered his preference for men. He did not attempt flaunt it, not because he thought it was embarrassing, but because he did not see it as a personality trait or viral information in knowing him as a person. He had no time for romances. Yet he supposed it was rather strikingly obvious with the way he had been following this man around and shooting smooth comments at him, even if it was purely artificial. Somehow, a voice in his chest told him the preference was mutual.

“Well, I would not know about that,” he chuckled defensively as he excused himself from monologuing internally. “I am a conservatory man myself. Gary, Indiana, gold medal class of Aude ‘05.”

He was, in fact, not a conservatory man himself from Gary, Indiana, gold medal class of Aude ‘05.

Gregory was not buying into it as he narrowed his eyes. “Even should that happen to be true, Mister Taupe,” — he made it a special point to discredit him — “I am not as easily mesmerized as some of the people in this town, and I think it only fair to tell you that I am not impressed by your credentials, which I have not seen, nor your manners, which I have!”

Christophe knew a temporary lost cause when he saw one, and he permitted Pretty Boy to storm away from him with a ferocity and intensity he had not seen in him before. Clyde was certainly right about this one, he thought as he placed his hat back atop his head and walked away, whistling. He was a tough one to get into.

And that was a challenge he was extremely willing to accept.


	8. Chapter 8

“It is a golden key, as it were,” Christophe explained, “your key to the magic world of music.”

Next to him sat his next potential customer. A gangly women with stringy red hair, her bony features rather sunken in as if she did not get enough to eat. Perhaps it was her tired eyes that made her appear so pitiful. She sat in an old rocking chair as she poured some peas into a colander before handing the leathery skin to Christophe, who flicked it into his growing collection that was accumulating in his hat. 

The woman shook her head. “None of our family has ever been what you’d call musical.” She had a twangy drawl similar to McCormick’s of the school board and now barbershop quartet. Christophe wondered if there was any relation. 

She had two boys who sat staring at Christophe with snarled lips and squinted eyes — not necessarily from aggravation but more so curiosity. The older boy spotted a rather unfortunate haircut (and that was coming from Christophe himself, whose own hair scarcely came in contact with the bristles of a hairbrush), while the younger one had messy blonde hair and freckles speckling the bridge of his sunburnt nose.

Emptying more peas out of the shell, Christophe gave her a raised eyebrow. “Oh, madame, that you do not know,” he told her as he split another pea open. “Now, the main thing is imagination and proper instruction.” 

With the eyes of the young boys burning the back of his neck, Christophe placed his hat upon the measly wooden stool he had been perched on and stood up. “Ah,” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers as he strode over to the younger boy with the blonde hair. “Now you, young man. Repeat after me.” He blew into his pitch pipe that he kept in his pocket.

“I love music, mom-my,” he sang in a low sustained pitch as he flicked his finger with each beat. 

The blonde boy gave an uncomfortable, puzzled look before repeating “I love music, mom-my.” He was quiet and slightly difficult to hear, Christophe figuring he never talked much. Or sang, for that matter. He himself was not the most musical person on the planet, no, but even this quiet pipsqueak shed him into a good light. Just as he knew good music when he heard it, he knew the opposite just as well. This was an example of that opposite.

Nodding, Christophe focused his attention to the older boy with the unfortunate haircut. “Now you, young man,” he instructed before singing in the same low pitch, “Me too, mom-my.”

Somehow, the next kid was even more pathetic than the first. Maybe it was the prominence in the accent that the first one lacked. As if. 

“Oh, madame. It is amazing!”

Christophe leaned against the swing set the brothers were sitting on, peeling paint and old wood digging into his back. “Two members of the same family with absolutely perfect pitch!”

Standing up, the mother gave Christophe a grateful look, as if she would use this information to exploit her sons and their newfound talents for some extra money. Christophe approached her and quickly shuffled around in his pockets to pull out a small notepad and a pen.

“Sign here, madame,” he instructed as he pushed the notepad into her grip. She did so, returning the pen with a smile. 

Business is booming.

***

Filling in the apostrophe he reserved for last with one last streak of paint, Clyde shook his head in disbelief. “You sure cut a swath down at the high school yesterday.” 

Christophe was on his knees, hunched over his bed as the two men sat in his hotel room making fake posters to hang up in town. He was gluing the papers Clyde was painting for him in large, blocky letters, just a sign that said “PROF. TAUPE’s”. With the glued over papers, the signs read “GET A NEW LEASE ON LIFE BY JOINING PROF. TAUPE’S BAND”, instead of advertising some sort of elastic headache band. 

Clyde watched as Christophe cracked a sleazy grin over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Clyde confirmed, shaking the paper a few times to dry it off. “When you were talking about all those trombones, you looked just like you used to in Joplin.”

“Joplin?” Christophe asked after a pause while Clyde blew on the paint for good measure. 

Clyde stood up and walked over to Christophe to hand him the paper. “Yeah, when you used to imitate that Italian bandleader in the park.” 

Accepting the paper, Christophe gave a pause before chuckling to himself. “Oh yeah.” He turned to Clyde and began to wave his arms exaggeratedly, imitating a conductor, giving him a playful scowl before shaking his head and adding glue to the back of his new paper. “Oh, that’s kid stuff,” he smiled dismissively. “I am in rare form these days, son. Just you keep your eye on me on the next four weeks.”

Clyde could feel his eyes widen as he leaned forward against the bed frame. “Four weeks?” That was a long time for Christophe. He was good at his job, and you couldn’t rush these things, hell no. But with Gregory the librarian in town, even he was bound to run into trouble before then. He was taking a giant risk. “You used to get instruments in ten days.”

“Well, I still do,” Christophe answered as he brushed glue rather meticulously over the paper, “but it takes four weeks for the uniform.” He held up four fingers to reiterate, as if Clyde were incapable of counting. He had an entertaining habit of talking with his hands. 

“Uniforms?” Clyde repeated after realizing the extent of what he had said. There was never any deal about any uniforms before. “You’ve added uniforms?”

Christophe placed the paper carefully over the poster he was working on. “Uniforms and instruction books. I figured, what is the use of warming up if you are not going to pitch?”

Even though Christophe was rather skilled in his job, Clyde had a hard time believing he would be as safe as he apparently thought he would be. “But, you can’t pass yourself off as a music professor for four weeks!“ He observed Christophe, who began to secure the glue by patting the paper down with a rag. “You can’t read a note of music.”

A pause as Christophe turned to look up at him. “I now have a revolutionary new method called the think system,” he explained, sounding rather full of himself as he tapped on his temple a few times with his index finger. “We don’t bother with notes.” 

Christophe could suppose he could understand Clyde’s concerns. After all, it was a bit of a risky venture to stay in town that long, especially with distractions such as Pretty Boy and Broflovski. But, he had to rile up the townspeople of River City. Furthermore, the addition of uniforms and instruction books meant the addition of more money in his pockets. “Someday,” he thought aloud as he patted the edges of the paper, “reading music will be absolutely obsolete.”

Unconvinced, Clyde marveled “Well, I hope it’s soon, ‘cause in four weeks these people are going to want to hear some music.” Christophe stood up and passed Clyde the poster as he began to wander to some other area of the rather cramped hotel room.

“Yeah,” he admitted with a shrug, “but when the uniforms arrive they’ll forget everything else.” He grabbed Clyde’s hat from the dresser, indicating he was itching to get out and about. Clyde had learned to understand and pick up on his strange cues. “At least, long enough for me to collect...” he placed the hat on top of Clyde’s head, giving him a slight shove, “and leave.” 

Pushing Clyde ahead, Christophe gathered up the pile of posters that had been lazily strewn across the floor. “This is a refined operation, son.” Clyde suppressed a smile — he was just a mere year younger than Christophe, and the way Christophe referred to him affectionately as “son” and “kid” made him laugh, as if he were some sort of patronizing grumpy old grandpa. Though, truthfully, he wasn’t too far off the mark. Clyde opened the door for Christophe as he rose his arm and flicked his wrist, proclaiming “And I’ve got it timed right down to the last wave of the brakeman’s hand on the last train out of town.”


	9. Chapter 9

As they approached the livery, Christophe heard an annoying chatter of eight different conversations grow louder. Of course Mrs. Broflovski and her posse were making their rounds. They were adorned in the same loud, annoying feathers as they chartered in the same loud, annoying voices as they sauntered on in the same loud, annoying manner. 

“Good evening, ladies,” Christophe greeted through gritted teeth as he and Clyde brushed passed them, both carrying a stack of posters underneath their arms. 

He wouldn’t have had to stop had he not heard a “Oh, Mr. Taupe!” in the midst of croons that followed. 

Thrusting the posters into Clyde’s hands, Christophe gave him an angry look that Clyde understood all too well. I’ll deal with this. Though, knowing Christophe, he likely intended for it to be strung with far more obscenities. 

Clyde shot him a sympathetic look before darting to the livery to take cover. Lucky bastard, Christophe thought as he turned his attention to the ladies. He began to listen as the short haired woman gushed “Everyone is so excited about the band!”

When the young ditzy blonde introduced herself as “Bebe Stevens, the pianola girl” with far too much enthusiasm, Christophe realized he did not care to analyze their movements any further as he forced a strained smile. He decided to hear rather than listen as the women began to ramble on excessively. “And this is Laura Tucker, and Ms. Cartman, and Mrs. Marsh, oh, and I’m Linda Stotch...” Christophe offered some pathetic “how do you do”s and dull “hello”s before the woman named Linda strutted over to Mrs. Broflovski herself, giving her a rather enthused look.

“And of course, you’ve met Mrs. Sheila Broflovski, our mayor’s wife?” 

Before Christophe could interject about how yes, he’s met the damn woman and wished he never had to come in contact with her ever again, or, really, all of you lot, Sheila spoke before he could open his mouth. 

“Yes, indeed.” She sounded as if she were about to inform her unknowing child that she had received his sad excuse of a grade report. Christophe gave an exaggerated bow, more so for the opportunity to roll his eyes without anyone noticing as he bent his head to his abdomen. 

Linda beamed at Sheila once more, asking, mainly to herself, “Isn’t it exciting?”

Sheila turned her head curtly to face Linda, the ridiculous, almost borderline offensive plethora of feathers on her hat bobbing with her every move. “I couldn’t say.” 

Linda deflated slightly, but Sheila pounced on her before anyone could interrupt and steal her spotlight. “Oh, no. I could not say. I could not say, at this time,” she corrected, her tone indicating she was correcting Linda for merely looking at her as she raised a gloved finger. She leaned to give Christophe a cold nod, drawling “My husband will wish to investigate, I’m sure,” as if he knew the answer.

Knowing all too well that her pathetic excuse of a husband would pry his smelly nose into Christophe’s business, he feigned astonishment as he covered a cautious hand over his mouth, as if he had not a clue as to why he would ever be subject to investigation. He begrudgingly listened on as she rambled “and, naturally, I’m reticent. Oh, yes,” she reiterated, once again lifting a finger. It was clear she thought highly of herself and had to broadcast every thought and feeling as though the lives of her posse depended on it. “I’m reticent.”

Marching over to her side, hoping to get her to shut up, Christophe forced yet another smile. “Yes, of course. I understand, Mrs. Broflovski.” Sheila gave him a skeptical glance but nevertheless leaned in to listen. He knew he must play the game of bootlicking and shower her with compliments and affirmations to catch her ear.

“But you see,” he thrust a finger in her face, and she looked at it as if it were some sort of bug, “part of my music plans include a committee on the dance, and I was thinking-“

He stopped in his tracks. He noticed that Sheila had begun to fidget with a scowl on her face, and he paused, wondering what he had said to somehow turn her off. A closer glance told him that she was moving her foot, and he looked down to see her shuffling her right foot around in her heel. 

“Oh, do that again, Mrs. Broflovski.” A new plan exploded in his mind as he tactically attempted to search for all of the loose ends and tie them together in an instant. His thought process, slightly difficult to construct in a concise manner as multiple possibilities melted together, was structured like so: movement, feigned shock, possible explanation, praise movement for dance potential, recommendation of leading dance committee, flattery, bingo.

Sheila hesitated before interrogating, “Do what? What’d I do?” It was more of a demand than a question.

“Your foot,” Christophe gestured with a curt nod, “the way you raised it, just now.” The sounds of moving fabric and shuffling indicated the posse behind his back were, too, in his clutches.

She looked at her foot before giving a slight jolt of realization. “Oh,” she groaned rather offhandedly, “well, I have a bunion there that bothers me.”

Christophe could have gone the rest of his life without hearing her explanation. 

Swallowing his disgust, he flicked a glance towards the crowd of women approaching from behind, all of which, unsurprisingly, were adorned in annoying feathers as well. “Oh, what grace,” he pretended to faun, and watched with delectation as her face lit up in enthusiasm.

“Oh, Mr. Taupe,” she smiled, and he could practically see the hot air going to her head. In a minute she would begin to squeal and whistle as steam would pour out of her ears. 

“What natural flow of rhythm,” he added, watching as she began to giggle to herself. These were the types of challenges he did not enjoy. Not because they were a challenge, no, but because it was dignity crushing moments such as these that made him want to shout that it was all a façade, and that he would never, not on his misfortunate life, even begin to fathom flirting with a hag such as herself. “What expression of line and... and movement.”

Though, thankfully, he was motivated to continue as he watched her turn to the ladies behind her and giggle to them as everyone chattered animatedly. He shook his head as he grabbed her hands, gushing “Oh, you must accept the chairmanship of the ladies auxiliary for the classic dance. Mustn’t she, ladies?”

Even though he was praising Sheila in particular, each of her gossip girls looked as though he had offered them the status of chairmanship instead as gasps of agreement rose all around. Sheila strutted over to join the commotion, only missing a sash that said “SUCKER” on it in large, elegant lettering. Yes, his work could be embarrassing at times, Christophe thought over the rising din of giggles in the manner of a crowd of school-girls, one could not afford to grouse over how embarrassing it was. Each compliment was another dollar in the end. 

“Mrs. Broflovski,” he announced over the noise, “your every move. It speaks Del Sartre. Will you?” He gave a nod and lifted his eyebrows, his tone not unlike a child persuading his parents for a new pet they found on the street, “Will you? Say yes, Mrs. Broflovski.”

Red in the face, Sheila bashfully placed her hand to her cheek. “Well... I... That is, ah...” she stalled before sauntering back over to Christophe. “Dancing... well...”

Taking her hand, Christophe nodded expectantly. He thought that if he nodded any more his head might fall off. “Then you accept!” He declared, rather than giving her the freedom of asking a question. 

Before she even opened her mouth to exclaim “Yes, indeed!” Christophe saw the intense hunger in her eyes, the hunger for more compliments and validations. “And I would like to say-“

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Broflovski.” Christophe cut her off so he would not to hear whatever it was she would have liked to say. Sheila trailed off and gave him a hesitant look, the hunger for affirmation now turning into a desperate plea. He knew he would be stuck here all night with the rest of her gang if he did not do something to shut her up once and for all. He gazed down at her hand he was holding and pursed his lip disapprovingly regarding what it was he was about to do. 

Sparing no time, Christophe raised her hand and pressed it to his lips. He tore his head back as fast as possible without raising suspicions as Sheila guffawed and chuckled and carried on like the giddy suck up she was. He cracked a smile before exiting the group as quickly as possible, feeling quite stuffy in his suit that felt achingly unbreathable. Suddenly, he remembered that he was doing this all for his own cause. He turned his heel and asked the group of excited chattering,

“And now, the young man who teaches the piano.”

No answer as they bobbed their heads and giggled and crooned.

“Ah... Gregory Thorne, I believe.” He has finally given in and asked Clyde for Pretty Boy’s name on the trek to town that had gotten cut short and placed Christophe into his current position. How typical for the bastard to have a name as annoying as himself.

Apparently the ladies knew the name Gregory Thorne quite well, as they immediately whirled around amidst a chorus of “oh!”s through oval mouths and wide eyes. The silence that followed quickly after caused Christophe to blink a few times, adjusting to the quiet that he thought would never come. “Well after all, he is the librarian,” he stated when no one spoke up. And then,

“He must have picked him out the first crack out of the box!”

“Talking up to a man like that!”

“He wouldn’t take up and talk about-“

“Well if he didn’t take and try turkey talking to him!”

“Brazen!”

“Now to take his ticket and punch him for it!”

“Picked him out first crack like a cheap jab!”

“Not much pick to him if you ask me!”

“Pick a little, talk a lot!”

“Pick a little, talk a little!”

“Cheap, cheap, cheap!”

“Talk a lot, pick a little more!”

Christophe could not have comprehended anything they were saying if his life had depended on it. He couldn’t even identify who was saying what flurry of sentence fragments. He just stared on in bewilderment as he disregarded any instinct to try and decipher the meaning behind their bantering. 

As they quite literally gave a chorus of “Pick a little, talk a little, cheap, cheap, cheap! Talk a lot, pick a little more”s, Christophe thought in grim hilarity that they were no different than the group chickens that were strutting around the front of the livery. Both of them were dressed in flashy feathers, spoke in quick, curt fragments, strutted around in an inseparable herd, and quickly grew tiresome after spending more than a minute around them. Frankly, there was no difference.

“Professor,” one of the ladies announced, snapping his focus to her. He had already forgotten her name. No, that was a lie. You can’t forget something you didn’t pay attention to. “His kind of man doesn’t belong in any committee.”

As seemed to be the theme of the night, or, perhaps the entire trip, Christophe once again found himself lost as to what on earth she could have been talking about. He hadn’t mentioned the idea of Gregory joining any committee of the sort, especially not a ladies dance committee. But, now, he figured he would track him down once again and ask, and watch as he would get a rise out of him as he would struggle to figure out why he would be asked to join a ladies dance committee. He was womanly enough, he would respond before slipping away from any harm as he was left to figure out what the fuck was happening. Yes, thank you, chicken woman. 

“Of course, I shouldn’t tell you this,” this particular chicken woman continued, even though he knew that she knew very well nothing would stop her, “but he advocates dirty books.”

The dirty books she had referred to with a steely glare and profound emphasis were likely not dirty at all, but he repeated “Dirty books?” incredulously as he searched for any transition into more information about Gregory.

“Chaucer,” another chicken lady piped up as she joined to crowd around Christophe.

“Rabelais,” the first chicken lady spat, as if her malice for the library wasn’t clear enough. 

Sheila was next to come traipsing along and give Christophe a patronizing glower. “Balzac,” she sneered, shaking her head in disgust. Christophe turned his head to get another look at the group of chickens — the animals, anyway —, all the while planning an escape route and maybe take a cold shower or five. He did not shy away from filth or grime, but the cleanliness and primness of these women made him feel sordid.

Chicken Lady #1 pointed a finger in Christophe’s face, intent on agonizing him for as long as possible. “And the worst thing, of course, I shouldn’t tell you this—“

“I’ll tell,” crooned Chicken Lady #2, rather atwitter.

“The man lived on my street,” insisted Bebe the pianola girl, whose name was the only name he could recall, “let me tell!”

“No. I’ll tell.”

All instances of commotion ceased as Sheila Broflovski raised a hand in the air, almost demeaningly, Christophe scoffed as he tried to bite down the itch of impatience. He desperately wanted to tell these women that he did not want to hear another word squeak past their shit-lips. However, part of him knew it would be beneficial to stay where he was to get all of the dirt on Gregory he could, as incomprehensible most of it seemed to be.

“He made brazen overtures to a man who never had a friend in this town until he came here. Old Miser Harrison.”

Christophe shook his head in disbelief. The man was some sort of wench? The same man who looked as though he never had an ounce of excitement in his refined little life was having gay love affairs with — wait a moment.

“Miser Harrison?” He repeated, scowling. Sheila and her friend, Mrs. Marsh, he thought, recalling her name as he now found himself finally interested in this gossip (possible relation to Randy Marsh?), nodded and repeated his name in tones that were difficult to read.

His eyes widened with genuine surprise as the wires connected and the sparks flickered to life. “Harrison Picnic Park, Harrison Gymnasium, Harrison Hospital...” he counted off every single thing he had seen with the words “HARRISON” engraved upon them. He had found himself wondering who this man was. “That Miser Harrison?” 

Mrs. Marsh nodded. “Exactly. Who did he think he was, anyway?” 

“Well, I should say,” Christophe breathed, daring to believe it. He had a difficult time picturing this prudent little snob head over dick with this miser Harriwhoever, and even if their gossip turned out to be nothing more than a dramatized speculation, which was likely the case, he wondered how they had ever came to such a bizarre conclusion in the first place. And he loved it. 

Thinking of how to stir the pot even more, Christophe scoffed, “The showoff. He gave the town the library too, didn’t he?” He pointed to where the library lie in the distance as Bebe grabbed his extended arm and shook it excitedly.

“That’s just it!” She shouted. “When he died, he left the library building to the city!” 

Christophe hoped this Old Miser Harrison did not live up to his pejorative title of “Old”. Gregory looked to be around his own age, perhaps a year younger, early twenties. He dismissed any further thoughts.

“But he left all the books to him,” Chicken Lady #1, Linda, it was, added smugly. 

Sheila tapped Christophe’s shoulder now, as if direct eye contact meant he was unable to hear a word that came out of her booming mouth. “He was seen going and coming from his place,” she said slowly and quietly and with such great secrecy Christophe felt as though he was being entrusted with the most confidential information that ever graced, or, disgraced for that matter, the earth.

Chicken Lady #2 — Ms. Cartman, yes, that’s it — had the floor now as she walked gingerly over to Christophe. “Oh yes,” she gasped, “that man made brazen overtures,” — the commotion resumed in the background once more as the rest of the posse had decided it was safe to chatter again — “with a guilt-edge guaranteed. He had a golden glint in his eye and a silver voice with a counterfeit ring! Just melt him down and you’ll reveal a lump of lead as cold as steel here-“ she smacked a hand to her heart as the surrounding ladies nodded in agreement, “-where a man’s heart should be!” 

Shaking his head in artificial disapproval, Christophe knew he would have to visit the library immediately after and have a chat with this man. He finally had the appropriate dirt on him to get him to listen and fall into his trap. 

Unexpectedly, the women around him began to sing in shrill voices as he whirled around to find more of the same inquisitive faces hiding behind him. 

“He left River City, the library building,” they explained, shooting him looks that told him he was about to receive more vital information. Unfortunately it had to be told through song, as seemed to be the tradition in town. “But he left all the books to him.”

“Chaucer,” Ms. Cartman gasped.

“Rabelais,” snarled Linda Stotch.

“Balzac,” drawled Sheila with a suggestive raise of the brow.

That was sufficient enough for the posse. They traipsed away from Christophe dismissively, all the while continuing their never ending banter. Though he had wished to accumulate a bit more of information, he supposed he had enough for now, and perhaps he could get more as he turned to run to the library.

“Just a minute here, Professor.”

Damn it all, he was growing to hate that twangy voice. Christophe turned around to see that sure enough, the four stooges of the school board had stopped him and were obviously looking for something.

Kern adjusted his bow tie that had always looked out of place with his large, rather chunky appearance. “Sorry, we need your credentials,” he continued as the other three oafs nodded in agreement, adjusting their jackets and straightening their ties and pulling on their suspenders. 

Looking over his shoulder to see that the chickens had not strutted far from the coop, their commotion still prominent and thick in the air, Christophe nodded as he unhinged his next plan. “Certainly, gentlemen. I have just what you want over my hotel.” He waved his hand in the air. “Please, come with me.” They exchanged raised eyebrows as they clearly did not expect to be granted permission so easily. And then, Christophe called out,

“Goodnight, ladies!” He took a few steps forward and pretended to conduct his imaginary band as he sang a rusty “Good-night, ladies,” before turning to the school board expectantly.

Just as according to plan, they joined him on the next bid goodnight. Once again they sang it in four part harmony with scarcely a second thought, as if they had just gotten finished rehearsing it minutes ago. Christophe took a slow step backwards as he continued to conduct them clumsily, flicking his wrists before kicking his leg up and rubbing his hands together to indicate his job here was done. He jogged into the livery, swinging the open door shut behind him as he left the school board to serenade the chickens. Yet another close call had easily been avoided.

Little Karen couldn’t help but think it was awfully strange that so many people were bustling around the livery. She had ended her piano lessons early for the night as Mr. Gregory headed off for another shift at the library. She had planned to pay him a visit, but suddenly remembered she had not visited the horses in the livery for quite awhile as she normally liked to do. It must have been a busy horse-visiting night, as she had to weave her way through the crowd of people who seemed to loom over her. She reached to grab the door handle and pulled the heavy wooden door open a crack before peering in cautiously, not wanting to trespass.

Clyde had still been waiting for Christophe in the livery when he came back, launching into an explanation about how apparently Gregory is a slut, he heard all about it from those fucking chicken women — that was a new insult for Clyde, who regretted laughing at his comment after finding out he was 100% serious — annoying bitches wouldn’t leave anyone alone if they could help it, anyway yes, the man was thinking with his dick for Harrison, The Miser Harrison, was entrusted all the dirty books, hah, dirty his ass, then the damn school board asked for his credentials, managed to stall the brainless oafs, and here he was. And now he was sitting against a plow, just finished with retelling his horror story, when he gave Clyde a nudge and pointed to the door, which had been opened a tad.

At first, Clyde thought it would be one of the chicken women Christophe despised so much, but he realized it was a young, petite girl with stringy brown hair and curious eyes. She seemed to be cautious, holding back as Clyde bent down to her level, staring blankly at her rather than choosing to initiate a conversation.

Realizing she would be the one to speak first, the girl drew a breath before asking in a careful voice, “Can I visit the horses?”

“May I,” Christophe heard Clyde correct to the voice outside the door. He rolled his eyes as he knew Clyde could give two shits about proper grammar. He thought about how Gregory Pretty Boy Thorne would be the first one to pounce at someone for even considering the use of improper grammar. Now that was some amusing food for thought, thinking about how he would have to try and test that theory when given the chance.

“May I visit the horses?” The little girl corrected herself without batting an eye, as if she made the same mistake often.

Clyde thought for a moment. “Well, it’s not visiting hours, but... alright.” Eagerly, the girl slid through the crack in the door before leaving it open behind her. 

Christophe rested his elbows against the back of the wooden chair Clyde had pulled up for himself. “What a beautiful evening,” he muttered. He was mainly referring to the beauty of the silence in the livery, for his ears were still ringing from the shrill caterwauls of those damned gossip girls.

“Yeah,” Clyde observed, peering through the sliver of night that trickled in through the door, “not bad, not bad at all for a little place like River City, Iowa.” He suddenly leaned forward with a jolt and pulled the door closed as if he saw someone approaching, but when he turned to face Christophe he sported the same half interested expression he always wore.

“Say, why don’t you come over to the boarding house tonight?” He suggested, and Christophe heard it in his voice that he had been meaning to propose it for awhile. “We got chicken croquettes tonight.” 

Looking up at him, Christophe responded “No, I am not thinking about food,” before dipping his head and smirking into his knuckles at the thought of chicken croquettes. He would never be able to view chicken the same way again, much less dine on it.

Clyde grabbed the fraying rope that was dangling from the side of the plow. “Gonna line yourself up a little canoodling, huh?” Christophe knew that as he walked behind him to loop the rope upon the hook that he was grinning the provoking grin he always liked to wear when he began to mess with him. 

“I’ve got something to... look up, over at the library,” he answered knowingly as he examined his fingernails. The sound of shoes scuffling against gritty pavement marked that Clyde had turned around and was likely sporting a goofy grin. He rubbed his suit jacket with his knuckles. “From what I’ve heard, ah...” he began to whistle as he flicked his wrist back and forth a few times. Clyde had always been jealous of his ability to whistle so effortlessly. Wasn’t the best singer, yeah, but his breath didn’t disconnect once when he whistled.

“Say,” Clyde grinned as he crossed his arms. “Why don’t you let me fix you up with Craig Tucker? Good buddy of mine, youth pastor. Teaches Sunday school.” He gave an incredulous laugh as if he couldn’t believe why his good buddy would ever waste his time on a profession such as that, and Christophe agreed. 

Standing up, Christophe shook his head as he struggled to imagine dicking down this lame turbo virgin Clyde was attempting to hook him up with. “No wide-eyed, eager, wholesome, innocent Sunday school teacher for me,” he told him, clapping him on the shoulder. Clyde smiled as he thought to himself that was absolutely everything his buddy Craig was not.

“That kind of man spins webs no spider ever-“ he paused as Clyde watched him give a slight jolt and put on a frown. “Now listen boy,” he grunted, and Clyde knew he was about to settle in for another rant. “A man who trades on all that purity merely wants to trade my independence for his security.”

It happened in an instant, with no warning or indication marking that Christophe would burst into song for him. He already had a difficult time trying to process Christophe — bitter, negative, bull-headed, sailor mouthed, eagle eyed Christophe — would ever sing in front of a crowd, even for scheming purposes, and now he was willingly launching into song for him. 

“The only affirmative he will file,” he reprimanded as he snatched Clyde’s arm and looped it under his own, walking across the floor of the livery, “refers to marching down the aisle. No glorious, golden, gleaming, pristine god, no sir.” He shook Clyde off of him much like a dog shaking the water off its coat as Clyde merely stood in awe, wondering if Christophe had caught some sort of illness. 

Just as he was about to ask “Are you sick?”, Christophe continued on by pretending to nock an arrow on an invisible bow. “For no Diana do I play fawn-“ an attention grabbing finger point right between Clyde’s eyes as Christophe had that intense gleam in his eyes, the one that told him he was not to be interrupted. “I can tell you that right now.”

Realizing too late that serenading was not enough to execute whatever point he was trying to make, Clyde found himself stumbling over his feet as Christophe jumped into him, pushing him out of the way while announcing “I snarl.” Clyde cautiously took another step out of the way as he jumped again, in time with his “I hiss.” He prepared once more to leap out of the way, unsure of what to do, call a doctor maybe, when Christophe turned to look at him with a jovial glint in his eye, demanding “How can ignorance be compared to bliss?”

“I spark,” he continued as he took a leap from whence he came. Clyde followed blindly, feeling as though he’d get lectured if he didn’t. “I fizz for the man who knows what time it is.” Clyde seriously considered booking it to the Harrison Hospital when Christophe placed one hand on his hip and another upon his mangy head of hair, as if he were trying to make a move. 

“I cheer,” he continued, snatching Clyde’s hand and swinging it into the air. He noticed that Christophe was smiling, with an impish gaze that told him to just go with it and roll with the musical punches. “And I rave, for the virtue I am too late to save.”

Clyde couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he was intruding. He gave a nervous grin as he gave his vest a tug, beginning to regret ever joking about fixing him up.

“The sadder but wiser man for me,” Christophe explained, and Clyde realized that was his sentiment. He shot him a look before jokingly strutting away in an effeminate manner, rolling his shoulders and laughing as Christophe stared at him, open mouthed as he gingerly placed his hands in a ballerina pose and tiptoeing back to his side. He found it hard not to break character and laugh at the stupid look Christophe had on his face. He loved messing with the guy. 

Apparently over his initial shock of Clyde playing along, Christophe made his way over and shot an angry stare. He was in for it now. 

But then, and as Clyde should have figured, Christophe jabbed him in the stomach with his finger as he smirked*. “No bright-eyed, blushing, breathless, baby doll baby,” he told him as he clapped a hand on his arm once again. “No sir, that child ties knots that no sailor ever knew.” He pretended to tie an invisible knot that stood before him. 

Any nagging suspicions that perhaps Christophe really had gone legitimate, as he called it, disappeared when he explained “I prefer to take a chance on a more adult romance”. Clyde knew that he was only yanking his chain, as Christophe vehemently resisted and spoke against involving himself in romantic affairs. He, too, was just trying to get a rise out of Clyde. 

“No do-young sir who keeps resisting,” he added, putting his hands out and moving them back and forth before lunging and moving the lower half of his body front and back, “all the time he keeps insisting.” 

He gave a snap with his fingers as he crossed in front of Clyde and snuck up to his other side, in a manner that indicated he had just remembered what slipped his mind hours previously. Boy, that man was strange. 

“No wide-eyed, wholesome, innocent male. No sir!” He once again threw his palms up defensively, as if Clyde were about to confess to him that he was everything Christophe was raving against. “He is the fisherman, I am the fish, you see.”

Another strange habit of Christophe’s was making the strangest, most alien analogies and metaphors Clyde had ever heard. He learned not to question them rather early on. Instead, in the current moment he opted to pretend to reel in a rather hefty catch. Christophe noticed, thankfully, sparing him some embarrassment. He took a giant step closer to Clyde, stomping his feet loudly* on the concrete, exclaiming in a booming voice, “PLOP!”

Again, the man was nuts.

He threw Clyde a precautionary glance that told him to move out of the way as he took another two leaps. “I flinch, I shy, when a lad with a delicate air goes by.” Clyde wondered how on earth he was ever going to chase down Gregory, even if the romance(?) was purely artificial. Gregory mainly had an air of superiority and snobbery, but he could not be any more different than Christophe, especially with his imaginary romantic tastes he was describing. Somehow, Clyde felt as though there was an underlying morsel of truth behind his words.

“I smile,” Christophe proclaimed as he began to take more steps closer to Clyde, “I grin, when a man with a touch of sin walks in. I hope-“ Clyde felt a tug as he noticed Christophe had crossed from behind and was dragging him closer without warning, “and I pray-“ A flash of contempt darted in Christophe’s eyes as he knew he was chastising himself for saying so. He didn’t know anyone else who condemned all things religion as heatedly as Christophe.

Feeling a jolt in his stomach, Clyde realized Christophe had him by the shoulders and was pushing him back into a lean. Clyde stood absolutely still as he tried not to indicate any sign of anxiety — he knew Christophe would be one of those people who would give their oath to catch a person before letting them fall and break their back — as he watched Christophe trace his finger in the shape of an A across Clyde’s chest, grinning, “-for Hester to win just one more A.”

Pressure formed on his shoulders when Clyde realized Christophe had grabbed them and was beginning to push him forward, to which Clyde caught on after a slight bout of bumbling. “The sadder but wiser man’s the man for me,” Christophe reiterated from behind his shoulder. And, unbeknownst to himself, Clyde found himself repeating another “The sadder but wiser man for me” as he marched along, leaving Christophe to follow. 

A foreign sound entered their presence as both men turned their head to see the little girl from before clapping excitedly and laughing. They both shared a look as they had completely forgotten her presence.


	10. Chapter 10

Gregory gingerly placed the rather hefty stack of returned books upon the cart, giving the cord a yank so as to transport the books to the second floor of the library. He would have to spend some time placing them back into their assigned places. One would not believe how many people tried to do it themselves to spare him the trouble, how their well-meaning efforts resulted in more time spent searching for and rearranging books to their proper destination.

Turning to scale the staircase and organize the returnees, Gregory was halted by the sound of the entrance door opening and approaching footsteps. A group of young men marched uniformly — scratch that, he saw a straggler creep up behind them a moment behind — to the front desk.

Gregory made his way over, grabbing the stamp and kneading it thoroughly into the ink pad. He expertly pressed it down on each opened page that was handed to him and back to the ink, watching as the same faces handed him what looked like the same books with the same movement and the same manners, before walking away in the same gait. When he had first assumed his occupation as librarian, he observed each and every movement made by each and every patron. Although he was still highly analytical of his surroundings, he had learned to focus his attention on much more important matters rather than trying to decipher one’s life story with just a glance. He had learned, though rather painstakingly, not to care and mind his own business.

He wished he had cared.

So accustomed to mindlessly stamping each book that was presented before him, he had not realized his stamp had landed quite literally in the clutches of the seedy salesman, Professor Taupe.

It was unhealthily amusing to watch the look of absolute abhorrence sweep over Gregory’s face as he realized Christophe held the stamp in his hand. He hadn’t even noticed him slip behind the group of men before him, not even when he was the only one left in line. Christophe couldn’t help but simper.

“No, it’s alright,” he exclaimed as Gregory decided he’d rather appear utterly pissed than disgusted. He realized that Christophe was still holding the stamp, for he yanked it away cautiously, as if it were contaminated. Christophe nonchalantly wiped his now ink-stained palm on the shiny wood of the desk as Gregory opened his mouth before thinking better of it and closing it again. “I know everything, and it does not make any difference.”

Refusing to give him the satisfaction of asking a question as to what on earth this man was talking about now, Gregory grabbed a stack of books and moved them next to the typewriter, suddenly interested in where they were situated. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he responded curtly as he deprived Taupe of eye contact.

“Mister Harrison,” Christophe answered. He moved over to where Gregory was focusing intently on the cover of some books. He knew that he was avoiding asking any questions and giving him the cold shoulder, but he had unknowingly face planted right into his trap. He reached for Gregory’s hand and holding it in his own, giving him a gentle pat as he heard Gregory take a sharp intake of air through his nose, scowling at him. “You were probably very young,” he crooned, “anyone can make a mistake.”

“What??” Gregory removed his hand away from Taupe’s grip, annoyed with himself for allowing it to be there for as long as it was.

Now intently fixated on the vase of frilly pink flowers displayed atop a drawer, Gregory sauntered out of Christophe’s way. He was stubborn and hard to get, but in a strange, sophisticated manner. Christophe followed him nevertheless, peering over his shoulder as Gregory opened the drawer to shuffle the little yellow index cards inside. They both knew he wasn’t looking for anything in particular, except for an escape.

Christophe looked around before telling him, “No apologies, no explanations.”

Nothing.

“You see, I will only be in town a short while, and, ah. The sadder but wiser man for me.”

Taupe was making a shameless display of himself, not even bothering to hide his attempts to flirt with Gregory.

“Would you please make your selection and leave?” He asked rigidly.

Christophe prepared for the next bombshell. “I have,” he answered, leaning against the desk and propping himself up on his elbows.

Gregory turned around quickly. Perhaps he had come to harass him as a side quest, and that he was actually on the prowl for a book. Though heavily skeptical, Gregory asked slowly, “What do you want to take out?”

Pointing an eager finger, his eyes crinkling at the corners with twisted delight, Taupe put on a sleazy grin as he declared to the entire library,

“The librarian.”

Gregory was surely beet red in the face, he could feel it. Had he not, Taupe’s expression of sick glee would have indicated regardless. Fortunately, the library was on his own side, for they greeted his pick-up line with a chorus of “shh”s, and the mischief drained from Taupe’s face as he whirled around to shush them back, glaring daggers. A break in character, Gregory observed, suddenly feeling much better about himself.

Christophe put a finger to his lips to the ingrate bookworms that plagued the library, attempting to pass off his irritation. Gregory gave him a red faced glower and a steely “Quiet, please,” before crossing back to his stack of uninteresting, dusty old books. He snatched a nearby pen and opened up one of the books as Christophe leaned over him, cupping his mouth and repeating in a quieter voice,

“The librarian.”

Nothing. Again.

Aggravated, Christophe put a hand to his chin as he desperately thought of how to grab Gregory’s focus. Though he was the absolute opposite of himself, he had picked up on some similarities in personality — they were very subtle and diluted, but just prominent enough to snag Christophe’s attention. They were both rather stubborn, they both had a superiority complex (though Christophe’s to a much lesser extent, just enough to take pride in his abilities) and the way Gregory’s eyes (when he granted the privilege of eye contact, that is) flicked around in deep thought as he spoke indicated that he was just as observant and analytical as Christophe himself.

The wires connected and sparks flew yet again as Christophe pointed a finger to the back of Gregory’s curly head. “You are not listening, Gregory,” he told him.

Gregory froze. He dropped his gaze from the book he had his face buried in and turned to face Taupe. Without even realizing he had said it, he asked, with a very subtle hint of fear pinching his voice, “How do you know my name?”

“Word of mouth travels fast in this town,” Christophe lied, glad Gregory had reacted as he planned. “It is a nice name. I thought you would have a more... feminine name.” Offended was the word to describe Gregory’s expression as he gaped at him angrily, Christophe only returning it with a bored stare. “Something like, ah. Marian? Marion? It can work both ways, really. Marian the Librarian.” He moved his hands as if it were being displayed on a large marquee sign. “Now, doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?”

Did this swindler, this charlatan, this quack, this flimflammer, this phony truly think he was clever? Did he truly, earnestly believe he would win his heart by patronizing him and insulting him? Gregory permitted himself to be rightfully angry as Taupe seemed to be completely unfazed by what he had just said. “No,” Gregory stammered, wishing uncharacteristically to scream, “It does not!”

Taupe only shrugged. “Suit yourself. Look.” Gregory turned away from him and back to his book as he saw Taupe begin to dig into his suit pocket. The amount of preparation he went through to pounce on him was absurd. It was evident he had done excessive amounts of planning.

And suddenly, just as Gregory believed Taupe’s behavior could not become any more unpredictable, he heard his scratchy voice croon “Marian” from behind his neck. It was insulting enough that he had now decided to ridicule his name and tease him, but what took the cake was that he had crooned it in a sustained pitch, a melody, singing. He sighed and turned around to find a small bag being swung tantalizingly in front of his face.

“Marbles,” Christophe explained as Gregory “Pretty Boy Poodle Hair Marian the Librarian” Thorne’s scowl drew back to perturbation. “Six teenys, eight aggies, a dozen peewees...” he exited the cramped little desk area to lean against the front of it, all the while ensuring the bag of marbles was in plain sight. “And one great big glassy with the American flag in the middle.” He spared a glance, and sure enough, Gregory, as much as he likely hated to admit it, was all ears.

“I think I will drop them,” he announced after a pause.

Wood collided with Gregory’s chest as he practically threw himself over the desk counter, frantically shouting “NO!” as Taupe went to pull the strings of the bag open with a smile reminiscent of a greedy child’s opening a present they had previously gotten a peek at, living the upcoming weeks under a lie. He even had the gall to shush him as he placed the marbles against the drawer on the desk.

“Mister libra...” Christophe sang once more as he watched Gregory storm away to busy himself with the typewriter this time around. He certainly had him now, he told himself triumphantly as he marched to the typewriter in pursuit. Cornered, Gregory, the odd little bastard, opted to duck underneath the desk as Christophe spat a quick “...rian”, bending over to look at him.

When it was tangible Gregory would not be coming out of the pathetic little hidey-hole any time soon, Christophe walked into the desk area once more, leaning against the wood, thinking of how to keep him. He recognized that Gregory had not expected him to burst into song, which, understandably, most people didn’t, and he supposed he would have to serenade yet another River City townsperson in exchange for their attention. “What can I do, my dear,” he asked, crossing his arms. He noticed Gregory tense at the word “dear”. “...to catch your ear?”

In the manner of someone coming to realize they had left their oven on, Gregory flew up from beneath the desk and pointed an angry finger to where Christophe had stood before, only to find, rather farcically Christophe thought, that he was not there. He whirled around just in time to see Christophe place his hands exaggeratedly upon his heart as he sang “I love you madly, madly, mister librarian, Marian.”

Growing increasingly frustrated, though a normal observant may not have noticed it, Gregory marched over to the drawer again as he began to busy himself once more. Christophe peered from behind his shoulders. Gregory was rather tall in comparison to himself. He continued on, “Heaven help us-“ he threw up his hands, passing his eye roll off as a mere worried glance to the ceiling, “if the library caught on fire-“

Now his annoyance was becoming more obvious, Christophe noted as Gregory slammed the drawer shut, the quick rise of his shoulders indicating he was puffing out his chest. Christophe managed to squeeze himself next to Gregory, crushed between the desk and Gregory’s ridiculous yellow librarian get up, hypothesizing “and the volunteer hose brigade-men had to whisper the news to Ma-“

Gregory turned his head the opposite direction, and so Christophe followed, peering out from his shoulder to flash an open mouthed grin as he sustained the “a” in Gregory’s new nickname. An indistinct flash of stupefaction darted in Gregory’s eyes. He turned his head the other way, and Christophe leaned once more, flicking his eyebrows to signal that he could not be shaken. Together they carried out their little charade, leaning in opposite directions until Gregory once again gave in with an exasperated, faint “tch!”, rolling his eyes. Christophe approached him, normally this time, finishing his sentence with another curt “rian” before raising a finger to his lips, as if Gregory were about to speechify to him about how unethical and rude his behavior was.

Gregory prepared to speechify to Taupe about how unethical and rude his behavior was when he threw a finger to his lips, evidently aware of Gregory’s discomfort and aggravation. He was doing nothing else than provoke him, that was for certain. He tried not to let his “flirts” (if one would even call it that) rile him up, as that seemed to be just what he wanted, but it was as if he knew everything that managed to dig under his skin.

Considering ranting against Taupe’s signal to suppress it, Gregory opened his mouth when he saw a look of perplexity glint in Taupe’s hazel eyes, the look he knew very well, the look of a plan formulating right before his eyes. They were rather pretty, he had noticed. It was quite unfortunate they belonged to such an ugly man.

Curiosity getting to the best of him, Gregory turned to see what it was he was looking at. He immediately recognized the two faces who squeezed themselves in from the entrance to belong to Kyle Broflovski, the mayor’s eldest son, and Stan Marsh, the young man who had earned himself a reputation as being a hoodlum. Kyle was motioning eagerly for Stan to come inside, who looked as though he were rather unenthused at the idea, but nevertheless gave in and followed behind, both boys carrying books.

Christophe snuck behind the lovebirds, Stan and Kyle, he had pinned together himself, giving another “Mister libra...” before shushing the two of them, who returned the favor by giving him looks of intense confusion. He nestled in behind Stan, who turned his head to look at him strangely, when Christophe shook his head in dismissal. Stan shook his own head in disbelief before turning back to Gregory. Christophe sensed that Stan did not particularly seem to like Gregory, appearing rather tense and alert in juxtaposition to his normal aloof demeanor as he had gathered.

“...rian.”

Once again, after stamping Kyle and Stan’s books, greeted with a smile and a glare respectively, Gregory found himself marking Taupe’s palm as he looked up at him with the same unsettling grin he always seemed to flash him. Gregory took a breath before leaning against the counter and placing his forehead in his hand in resignation.

“What can I say,” Christophe sang as he watched Gregory give up and lean over the counter in defeat. He traipsed to the other end of the counter, where he figured Gregory may try to approach after he decided he had spent enough time brooding. “...my dear, to make it clear?” He hung against a support beam securing the upstairs portion of the library. Gregory raised his head slowly, looking forward, mentally battling whether or not he should find some other distraction or continue to sulk.

Evidently he chose the distraction route, as Christophe watched as he pulled himself up, biting his lip and raising his eyebrows. “I need you badly, badly mister librarian, Marian,” he fawned as Gregory predictably moseyed on his merry way over to him, blinking in impatience as he acknowledged Christophe’s presence.

As quick as he noticed Gregory lift his arm to condescendingly point a finger in his face, Christophe grabbed his hand, both of them, watching the same surprise sweep over his mug. And, as always, the same resignation quickly followed. “If I stumbled,” He continued to think of hypothetical situations jarring enough to make him react, “and I busted my whatchamacallit-“ He rubbed his back and hunched over, never once tearing his stare away from Gregory, watching his every move. Gregory suddenly appeared to remember he was still holding Christophe’s hand as he pulled it back in disgust. He looked embarrassed at himself more so than anything else.

“I could lie on your floor unnoticed,” Christophe continued as they resumed their game of cat and mouse, Gregory storming away from him once more. Admittedly, it was growing tiresome and repetitive, and Christophe could feel himself growing irritated as he permitted himself to don a scowl. Gregory shoved his way past him, evidently finished upholding his emotions with courtesy. Christophe stumbled for a second before regaining his footing, chewing his lip. “...’till my body had turned to carrion.”

He had begun to take the awfully insulting nickname of Marian with a grain of salt, finally tuning out Taupe’s romances. However, Gregory froze in his tracks as the pigheaded crook decided his next term of endearment would be likening him to compost. He turned around trepidatiously, bracing himself to see what expression he bore this time. Taupe had his chin resting on his knuckles, looking at Gregory, clearly amused with his lyrics. Gregory felt that every movement he made, every breath he drew, every blink he bat, every muscle he tensed, could be sensed by Taupe. He allowed Taupe to make sense of his storming away to focus on the large and rather welcoming encyclopedia displayed on the moving pedestal.

Christophe was too deep in to give up now as he stifled that annoying little voice that nagged in his brain. He approached Gregory who was about to weasel his way into what was possibly the largest book he had ever seen. He grabbed the edges of the wooden pedestal, across from where Gregory stood, resisting to look Christophe in the eye before once more giving in. He sang another “Mister librarian” as he began to spin the pedestal, moving in one large circle, never once breaking eye contact. Though he didn’t want to admit it, Christophe found himself frequently looking in Gregory’s eyes as a default. They were annoyingly captivating. Together he and Gregory fought to somehow outwit each other, each trying to see who would be first to let go.

Eventually it was Gregory who was first to let go, shooting Christophe a rather anxious glare before writing something in a tiny notepad that lie on top of the colloidal pages of the book. Though Christophe couldn’t see what it was he was scribbling down so furiously, he noted that he wrote in rather impressive cursive. What he would need such menial information for, he didn’t know, and he often didn’t like to waste the brain capacity storing useless snatches of information. Yet he somehow felt an obligation, wanting to absorb everything he could about this man. It was interesting nonetheless. His own handwriting was not notorious for being critically acclaimed.

“Now in the moonlight,” Christophe sang after prying his mind away from unimportant business. The telltale prickles tugged at his neck hairs as he turned to see who was watching them. Stan and Kyle were sitting together, rather close, peering at him over the top of a giant book that revealed to him it was Romeo and Juliet. They looked rather invested, glancing at each other before back at Christophe. Christophe flicked his hand up, indicating that he would mind his own business if they minded theirs, and as if they were in trouble, the book rose quickly, covering their faces.

“A man could sing it.” Gregory was still scribbling away furiously, and he only stopped as Christophe grabbed the front cover of the book and closed it slowly, all the while singing “In the moonlight,” forcing Gregory to move his hands out of the way in favor for the book. He looked down at his chest, closing his eyes, intent on ignoring him at all costs.

Feeling his head move, Gregory forced himself to pry his eyes open. Taupe was holding his chin with his hand, moving his face to his level and forcing them to lock eyes. Gregory had never truly felt uncomfortable with eye contact. Each time he deprived Taupe of it was to be interpreted as a cue that he was giving him the cold shoulder, that he was dismissed, that he did not wish to converse. And Taupe knew it too, he knew it very well, which was why his hand was supporting Gregory’s chin now.

This was the first time Gregory truly felt uncomfortable with making eye contact.

He found that he couldn’t force his eyes away. He knew that he had the choice to, Taupe making the two of them be at eye level didn’t mean he had to continue to stare. But, startlingly, Gregory realized that he physically could not tear his eyes away from Taupe’s. He didn’t want to. That was what horrified him the most.

With a flick of his finger from his eyes to Gregory’s, Christophe sensed that Gregory wouldn’t be looking away and humoring himself with distractions anymore. He shifted his weight and began to push on the pedestal, pushing Gregory with it as he had no choice but to back up with it. “And a fellow would know that his darling had heard every word of his song,” he explained over the book as the pedestal came to a stop, “with the moonlight helping along.”

It truly was a game of cat and mouse, Gregory thought to himself, for he was currently feeling rather mouse-like. He watched as Taupe began to rise over him, getting uncomfortably close — he was not using that term lightly. He felt as though he were swallowing a ball of thistles as he forced his limbs to move. It suddenly felt as though he had to carry out commands just to perform bodily functions that should have been second-nature. Blink. Swallow. Move your head. Breathe in. Breathe out. Blink. Look up. Stand. Hold your body weight. Move your hands. Start with your fingers.

He watched as Taupe was practically pressing himself onto him, and he appeared to be a little surprised himself as his eyebrows creased for a very quick moment. Height differences, he supposed. Gregory realized he had no time to find humor in their height disparity as he was strangled with Taupe’s gaze. For the first time since he had stumbled across him, Gregory realized that Taupe’s expression was the most austere he had ever seen it. He was very animated and expressive, even in his body language. He seemed to be searching for something as he stared into Gregory’s soul, his heart, his mind, himself. Well, he always appeared to be searching, but in this instant he felt almost intimidated, like a deer caught in headlights as Taupe never batted an eyelash as he continued to dig for whatever he was looking for. He had nice eyelashes, Gregory observed. Truthfully, he was rather appealing in a strange way. He looked as if he had only recently taken up the habit of showering frequently, and he seemed to have permanent dark circles beneath his eyes, and he doubted he ever came in contact with a hairbrush very often. He was quite intrig-

My lord, what are you doing?

Christophe watched as Gregory snapped to his senses and rushed away from him. He permitted it, making no attempts to stop him from busying himself as he would try to extinguish the rosy glow from his cheeks. Christophe knew that he had finally tapped into him, that he had struck a sensitive spot, that he had watched him unknowingly expose his vulnerabilities. He had gotten to him at last.

The counter shifted slightly beneath Christophe’s weight as he swung himself upon it. He continued his serenade as Gregory marched behind him, searching for a distraction.

“But when I try, in here, to tell you dear-“ Christophe snagged the ink pad that Gregory was eyeing in faint desperation. He pressed the stamp into the ink before pretending to mark it upon his heart. Gregory returned the gesture with an equally romantic eye roll.

“I love you madly, madly, mister librarian, Marian-“ Christophe lazily disregarded the ink pad as he threw it onto the counter. The sound of plastic hitting the wood earned him some angry glares from the bookworms, which he responded to with a shrug. Unexpectedly he felt his body leaning towards the right as it took him a moment to register that Gregory was tugging on his arm like an angry child. He was sitting on some papers.

Without much effort, Christophe shifted his weight to his arms as he pulled himself up to allow Gregory to angrily slide the papers out beneath him. “It’s a long lost cause, I can never win,” he lamented as he situated himself once more. Gregory had begun to scribble on the papers now as Christophe glanced at him before kicking his heels against the desk, shaking both of his fingers condescendingly as he chided “What the civilized world accepts as unforgivable sin.”

Another glance revealed that Gregory was still refusing to look at him, but Christophe knew he was registering every single word that he sang. He threw another look before cupping his hand against his mouth and projecting in his loud voice, “Any talking _out loud_ with any librarian...”

Good old Prudence rose to scold him for raising his voice before, again, thinking better of it and slumping back over his work. When Christophe gestured to him with a smooth “...such as Ma...”, he didn’t twitch a muscle.

However, multiple muscles were later twitched. Christophe nonchalantly stretched himself out upon the countertop, placing his shoes on the wood until he found himself being shoved off almost immediately with a shocking amount of strength exerted from Gregory. He gave a quick “rian” as he landed on his feet.

In Gregory’s hand was some sort of book that he had angrily snagged from the stack on his desk. Christophe realized he was approaching him, giving a glare that told him it was best he read it, even if he just stared blankly at the chapter index, as long as he finally shut his trap. Christophe stood in front of a bench where a group of young adults were seated, hunched over their own books.

“Mister libra-“

He was cut off and gave a cough as Gregory placed a palm firmly on his chest and pushed him forcefully upon the bench, opening the book right in front of his face. Christophe accepted it, holding it so his face was covered. He saw Gregory place his hands angrily upon his hips as Christophe moved the book down to his chin.

“Rian.”

He shoved his face back into the pages, bracing for a smack upside the head. The sound of angry footsteps marching away indicated that he was in the clear.

Tapping his foot, Christophe, without removing the book from directly in front of his face, nudged the man who was sitting next to him, a rather slender man with dark hair. He turned around and began to nudge the next man, a shorter blonde boy with a rather peculiar haircut, who nudged another dark haired and particularly angry looking man. They too followed Christophe as they began to tap their feet and hide behind the mask of their books.

Though he didn’t want to admit it outright, Christophe had learned quite a bit about himself on this current trip, and that included his ability to dance. He did not consider himself a dancer, far from it, mainly because he found it embarrassing and a skill that was not useful to him and his abilities. But as he and the three other men crossed their legs and passed their books down to each other in eerie unison, he wondered if he had suddenly picked up the talent as a means of diversion. Every time he had bit his lip and began to sing and dance like a show monkey, it had not been in vain. It had a purpose.

Gregory gave a look as Taupe and a handful of other patrons froze on the bench, facing sideways with their noses quite literally buried in their books. He forced himself to walk away and drop whatever plan he was roping the library into. He hadn’t said a word, so he supposed there could be worse things he was doing.

From his peripherals, Christophe could sense that Gregory had decided to busy himself once more. He jerked his head to the side to indicate to his own posse that the coast was clear as they slammed their books upon the table. Each of them climbed upon the bench they were perched on and stood before jumping off in uniform fashion. Christophe made a mental note to get the names of his followers later, even if they weren’t following his cue to get a reaction out of Gregory.

A finger to his lips signaled the rest of the herd to be quiet as he led them away in front of the front desk, where the little boy with black hair was watching them intently. However, the quick quirk of the corners of Christophe’s mouth indicated he didn’t intend for them to be quiet at all.

With outstretched arms, the bookworms turned dancers (and Christophe) moved with surprising grace behind the table, where a group of women were staring at them with quiet amusement, as if they would miss a movement if they expressed any more emotion. Christophe led his herd over to where Gregory had chosen to occupy himself with a book, marching up the stairwell to the second floor.

Metal bending beneath footsteps and a shift of movement of the staircase tore Gregory’s focus away from his book. Behind him was, unsurprisingly, Taupe and his followers, scaling the staircase from outside of the rail. Gregory gripped the banister as he watched all four of them jump over the rail and land nearly upon the actual stairs, Taupe flashing him a grin.

Evidently unenthused, Gregory decided he was done paying them any regard as Christophe watched him shove his pretty little face back in his stupid book. He turned his head over his shoulder to tell his crowd that a bigger distraction was needed. Giving a nudge to the tall, slender man with dark hair, Christophe positioned himself so he was sitting on the metal blue banister, and all of his men followed. Together they skidded down the banister without any trouble, landing neatly on the floor as Christophe gave his next plan of action.

A loud scuffling and sound of footsteps, loud footsteps, multiple, uniform footsteps, once again tore Gregory’s attention from his book as he had begun to descend the staircase seeing as the coast was clear. He watched in absolute horror as each of Taupe’s men, himself included, had each paired up with a woman and began to dance together.

The woman Christophe was dancing with, a rather attractive woman he supposed, long black hair and intense eyes, defined features, looked about as equally enthused to dance with him as he did. Which was, of course, not enthused at all. He gave her an indifferent shrug, which she returned unconvincingly as he attempted to twirl her, trying to rack his brains and think of every dance move he despised due to its formality. At least the unspoken feeling of _I don’t want to dance with you but we’re just going to have to suck it up_ was mutual.

Gregory acknowledged he was making an embarrassment of himself as he frantically waved his arms in an attempt to get the dancing to break up. He didn’t receive any sort of notion that they would stop any time soon, but he realized he had more immediate matters to handle when he heard what sounded like a parade of horses cantering through the library entrance.

A group of young girls were noisily stomping their way inside, swinging their arms as if they were still members of yesterday’s parade. The nagging voice in the back of his mind told him that it was a lost cause to quiet them as practically everyone in the library had their attention focused to the commotion, but he shushed them regardless in an attempt to make some sort of difference. The girls stopped before tiptoeing away, nodding, shooting alert side glances that told Gregory their silence wouldn’t last much longer.

Loud shrieks of delight —or perhaps it was fear— signaled Gregory to deal with the group of women clustered around a book on the second floor. However, they were not shrieking over the book. As Gregory followed their opened mouthed gawks of excitement, he suddenly felt as though he would join their shrieking as he felt his stomach plummet beyond the concrete floors of the library.

Kyle Broflovski was reading the large Romeo and Juliet book he had picked out for himself. Well. He wasn’t limited to only reading it. He was twirling against the banister that prevented him from plummeting to the first floor of the library. However, Stan Marsh was not as well protected. He had one foot on the banister of the stairwell, the other one outstretched as he tried to reach out to Kyle. Gregory watched as he swung himself upon the outer edge of the banister, with only his own movements and reaction time to protect him from breaking every single bone in his body if he were to stumble. Stan lunged his body towards Kyle’s, who lifted his own leg in the air as it looked like they were going to kiss from across the banister.

Gregory couldn’t stand to watch it any longer, not necessarily because of the kissing part, but because if they did happen to kiss, the risk of Stan stumbling and losing his grip and plummeting to the floor was all too realistic. Gregory darted to the stairwell and, unsure of what else to do, shouted “STANLEY!” as loud as he could in an attempt to get Stan to come to his senses and get off the banister.

The plan worked. Too well, he might add.

Clearly disoriented by his name being shouted to him, Stan startled as he lost his grip and slipped. Just as Gregory thought he would have to sign an endless amount of paperwork, he noticed that Stan did not plummet to his death. He was hanging on to the banister with his hands, kicking his feet more in anger than peril. Kyle threw his upper body frantically over the edge and grabbed Stan’s shirt. For a moment Gregory found himself preparing to sign off for the deaths of two bodies until realizing Kyle had sufficiently pulled Stan to his feet, who frantically swung himself over the edge of the banister, placing a hand on his chest and audibly exhaling.

Hopefully not as visibly rattled as he certainly felt, Gregory ran down the staircase and stormed over to Taupe. He was sitting alone on the bench with his hands on his knees, watching a man cartwheel past him. Even he seemed to be taken off guard by the theatrics he had caused, as if he didn’t believe he would get as far as he did. Preparing to kick him out and lecture his ears off, Gregory found himself at a loss of words and resorted to threateningly thrusting a finger in his freckled, intense face. The gesture was returned with a shrug.

Christophe observed Gregory turn around and point to the rest of the library before pausing in his tracks. Apparently he was only now realizing the magnitude of Christophe’s work. All of the respectful little bookworms Gregory had herded into his library were now dancing on the tables, on the stairwell, on the balcony. Even Christophe found himself fascinated at how well the simple distraction had escalated to. He slipped away as Gregory forgot to chastise him and instead moved rather catatonically to the middle of the library, absolutely at a loss.

Turning back around, Gregory reprimanded himself mentally as Taupe had managed to slip away from him. Usually he could scan his surroundings and instantly identify what it was he was looking for, but with so many legs kicking and arms outstretched and bodies twirling it proved to be almost impossible. He had also observed Taupe was quite sufficient in blending into his surroundings.

Ike, the mayor’s youngest, Gregory noticed, was pushing a cart of books, staring over his shoulder. With words failing, much to his chagrin, Gregory frantically pointed to where Taupe had been sitting and gestures like a madman, unsure of what point he was attempting to get across. Thankfully, Ike was bright enough to pick up on his charade for he gestured behind his shoulder with his thumb. Gregory gave him a grateful nod before hurrying to search for wherever the flimflammer had sought shelter now.

Christophe quickly threw himself back on the bench where he was sitting as he watched Gregory look for him rather pathetically. He was walking backwards, clearly overwhelmed with figuring out how he would ever manage to restore peace and order in his library. In fact, he was so preoccupied that he didn’t even notice that he was walking right in Christophe’s direction. Now or never, Christophe told himself as he stuck his leg out, watching Gregory’s back approach him with a particularly bored expression.

Gregory felt his heart leap as he suddenly lunged backwards, wondering how he had managed to trip over himself like a pathetic little foal. However, when he felt a pair of hands grab his waist particularly forcefully, he knew it was no accident.

It proved rather tasking to maintain his resting bitch face as Christophe watched Gregory connect the dots and gawk at him in shock, anger, and embarrassment. However, and though he certainly did not look the type to wield such power, Christophe was reminded of Gregory’s strength as he managed to push himself up furiously and force himself from Christophe’s grip.

The weasel had the audacity to look surprised as Gregory shoved himself away from Taupe, who almost seemed angry at himself for letting him go. As he maneuvered his way backwards, untangling his legs from Taupe’s, he found himself being pulled in as Taupe grabbed his hand and outstretched his own arm in the manner of the beginnings of a twirl. With a grunt Gregory managed to slip away once more, watching in satisfaction as Taupe’s eyes widened and he stood up, reaching for him, thought better of it, and sat down once more with his arms folded, legs crossed, and scowl prominent.

Of course, Gregory’s relief did not last long. He found himself being swept away once more, not from Taupe, but from the hands of another man. He recognized the bored expression to belong to Craig Tucker, the local youth pastor. He had been one of Taupe’s men just minutes ago — no, he still was one of his men now as he held Gregory’s hand and latched onto his waist rather awkwardly, pushing him back. Actually, all of his men were still following the unspoken commands of Taupe as they formed a train, almost, yes, that’s it, pushing him away and forcing him to awkwardly dance and maneuver his way out of Craig’s grip without stumbling and making a bigger fool of himself.

Though, he supposed as he turned around to face front-ways now, feeling the awkward grip resume on his hand and waist from behind, he supposed he would rather play along with their charade than make a total fool of himself and fall face first upon the floor. At least this way they were all fools together.

His grip from Craig’s was exchanged in favor of another man’s, a rather anxious, scrawny looking man with quite possibly the most untamed hair he had ever seen. Gregory told himself to play along, you will ultimately make a buffoon of yourself if you don’t, perhaps you will finally be left alone, a little fun never killed anyone, dancing, that was. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Taupe sitting with both feet on the bench, hugging his knees with one arm and using the other to pantomime a conductor. He had his one eyebrow raised, a habit Gregory noticed rather quickly, indicating he was in the analyzation process and watching his every move with great curiosity.

For the first time since Christophe had met him, he saw Gregory smile. Not a phony, half-interested, passive aggressive smile, no, but a genuine, open mouthed, warm smile that he knew was not there on purpose. He watched as Gregory opened up to the ideology that it was alright to loosen up and enjoy oneself, knowing that each move he made, each step, each kick, each outstretched arm, each motion was not the product of his mind instructing him to do so, but rather his heart.

Listen to yourself, Christophe scoffed internally, you sound as pathetic as he is.

Gregory used one of the support beams to spin himself around as he scuffed his feet in rhythm, marching within the circle of dancing men around him, all of them wearing the same indifferent expressions, the same distinguished, colorful polos and knickerbockers, the same movements. Christophe stood up and made his way over to the other end of the table, grabbing Gregory’s hand and lifting him so he could stand on it. He knew the smile he received was subconscious, but he couldn’t help but feel rewarded as he sat down and watched Gregory perform an odd but rather impressive little tap-dancing jig atop the wooden table, the sound of his feet and the encircling men’s echoing through the library.

Christophe gave a quick sweeping glance at his followers before putting a finger to his lips and shushing Gregory, who had discovered the acoustics between his shoes and the hollow wood and the arching library walls. Gregory, regaining a sliver of consciousness, turned bright red as he grinned sheepishly and made his way down from the table. Christophe craned his neck to watch him gallop through the line of the same expressionless men who led him along, eventually leading his way over to Christophe himself, who stood up and placed his hands on his waist, guiding him backwards.

He would now listen to the expression “free as a bird” with much more personal agreement, as Gregory truly felt lightweight and liberated. He had the burning desire to laugh out loud, his heart rather unbearably ticklish as he reveled in his newfound sense of freedom. He allowed Taupe to twirl him, beaming. Taupe was staring back at him intently, nestled deep in the throngs of concentration, but he allowed himself to raise his eyebrows in acknowledgment. He spun Gregory a few more times as Gregory permitted himself to laugh, laugh away the stress and burdens he had repressed for so long under the guise of being a sophisticated, proper role model and gentleman. He whirled back to face Taupe, who was holding his hands.

**Taupe, who was holding his hands.**

Appalled at himself more than anything, Gregory immediately threw his hands out of Taupe’s grip before storming away. He felt as though he would have to get some ice to place upon his cheeks. If his face were any hotter, the fire trucks would be making their way through town as they would have to put out the flame that was his face.

Back to his senses Gregory was. Christophe followed him as he stormed away, furious for letting himself be exploited by such a man, the gall, the audacity, blah blah blah blah I’m stuck up and annoying and a little bitch.

“But when I try-“

Gregory answered Christophe’s resumed serenade by slamming a stack of books furiously on the counter.

“In here-“

Slam.

“To tell-“

Slam.

“You dear-“

Slam.

Stuffing the marbles he had placed on the countertop into his suit jacket, Christophe made his way to where Gregory was brooding, grabbing some more books and helping him stack them, much to his horror, singing “I love you madly, madly, mister librarian-“

A group of angry “shh”s answered him from somewhere within the library. Everything was back to normal.

“Marian-“

“Shh!”

“It’s a long lost cause,” he explained as Gregory hurriedly flew up the staircase, clutching a stack of books to his chest. Christophe followed closely behind, continuing “I can never win.”

“Shh!”

“For the civilized world accepts as unforgivable sin-“

“Shh!”

“Any talking out loud with any librarian-“

Stan and Kyle were huddled in front of a book case, both reading a novel together. They looked up at Christophe, who shushed them before they could think of it. They only gave him a dubious look before returning back to their literature.

“Such as Ma...” Gregory was organizing his books now, bent over so he wouldn’t have to look directly at Christophe. Christophe grabbed one of the books, pointing it in Gregory’s face. “Ladies dance committee meets Tuesday nights.”

Once more, Gregory turned around to glower at Taupe. What was his issue? He thought it was rather evident that he was not a lady and would therefore be disqualified from attending whatever phony committee he had concocted. Before he had time to think, he found himself catching a book that Taupe had thrown at him offhandedly with a “-ian.”

Gregory slammed the book onto the floor as he turned to glare at Taupe, preparing to give him the lecture of a lifetime, definitely this time. However, he was pacified again, quite literally as Taupe shoved something into his mouth, saying “Marshmallow?” without giving him any time to respond. Horrified, Gregory spat the marshmallow onto the floor, shoving aside any inquiries as to why this man carried marshmallows on him.

He should have known that Taupe was still not content, as he watched him shove a marshmallow into his own maw, giving a muffled “Mifter libra...”

That was not the worst of it. Gregory watched as Taupe leaned in and gave him a very quick peck on the cheek.

That one took a lot of pride swallowing. Christophe immediately ducked as Gregory confirmed his suspicions, immediately raising a hand and preparing to slap him on the cheek.

No words could describe the horror and disgust and rage Gregory felt as he swung his arm around to give the bastard a nice hearty slap in the face as a thank you. He underestimated his own strength as he found himself whirling around and moving his body along with his arm. Thankfully, the sting that burned his hand immediately signaled that he had gotten his shot, and he watched as the body crumpled to the floor.

The body did not belong to Taupe.

Stan Marsh fell to the floor as he shouted an obscenity, Kyle throwing his arms beneath Stan’s as he threw Gregory a horrified look before falling to the floor with him.

Throwing a book to cover his face, Christophe hoped Gregory couldn’t hear the sound of him laughing hysterically through his lip he was gnashing down on, sure to break the skin. The dumbass stood over Stan and Kyle with his arm outstretched, watching the consequences of his stupid actions call him a bitch and ask what the hell that was for.

Christophe gave a shaky “rian” before hiding behind his book again and stepping onto the strange book transporting contraption. It shifted beneath his weight and pulled him down to the first floor. He threw the book on the ground before stepping onto the counter, jumping off into the little space it provided, and swinging himself over the front of it once more.

Gregory watched him dart into the night, angrily thrusting his chin onto his hand in defeat.


	11. Chapter 11

Stowing away the notepad he intended to get the mayor to sign as he marched to his house, Christophe was stopped in his tracks when he heard someone calling his name.

“Hey, Professor!”

“Hello, Stan,” Christophe greeted as he turned around. Sure enough, Stan Marsh came running to his side with an excited gleam in his eyes. His slightly red cheeks and heavy breathing indicated he had been chasing him down for quite some time.

“I think I got it,” he exclaimed. He sounded slightly winded.

Christophe had absolutely no idea what he was referring to. “Yeah?”

Suddenly he found himself blinking as something flashed directly into his eyes. Throwing up a hand to shield them so as not to go blind, Christophe saw what he was talking about.

“My music holder for a marching piccolo player,” Stan told him excitedly, holding his arm out. It was a pathetic little thing: a sheet of copper welded clumsily to a copper coil that supported it rather flimsily, bound together with the end of the coil looped in a leather strap that looked like a miniature belt for a persons arm. 

Unsure of how to respond, Christophe gave a rather unenthused “Oh” as he glanced at Stan expectantly to finish.

Stan pointed to the coil and then the copper sheet itself, as if he couldn’t make up his mind as to what he should show off first. “I still have a couple minor flaws that I haven’t worked out yet, though,” he explained as he held his arm with his other hand. He looked slightly uncomfortable, as if something was hurting him.

“Well, even Edison does not always get it right the first time,” Christophe answered as he leaned against the white fence containing the lawn of the Broflovski household. “Now, what is the difficulty?”

“Well...” Stan paused as he held onto the leather strap with his other hand. “When you hold it tight enough to keep the music steady...” he gestured to the sheet of copper before flexing his hand and moving his fingers with great difficulty, “you cut off the circulation and you can’t wiggle your fingers.”

“Oh,” Christophe answered. He tried to disguise his disinterest as sympathy.

“And meanwhile...” Stan bent his head, pretending to hold a piccolo for reference. The sun flashed directly onto the copper and into Stan and Christophe’s eyes, who both winced. “You could go blind.”

Clapping him on the back reassuringly, Christophe gave an indifferent shrug. “Well, I would say it still needs a little work.” He turned his head to look at the Broflovski household before remembering Stan’s involvement with the mayor’s son, Kyle. “Would you like to check out a few prospects with me?” He asked, grabbing Stan’s hand and already dragging him along. 

Hesitating, Stan took a few cautious steps before pointing to the front door. “Hey,” he gasped suddenly, as if he had just now realized that this was Kyle’s house, “you mean you’re going in there?”

“Well, I do not see any quarantine sign,” Christophe answered, slightly taken aback. He didn’t think Stan would be the type to pussy out, especially when he was never seen without Kyle nowadays. 

Stan gave one last look at the house before giving an apprehensive twitch of the head. “Gee, I’ve gotta hand it to you, Professor.” He paused once more before turning around, and Christophe sensed a part of him did want to come along. “See you later.” He gave a few steps before adding nervously, “I hope.”

Letting him go, Christophe watched as he jogged down the sidewalk and turned the corner. He gave one last shrug before marching onto the porch of the Broflovski’s and giving the doorbell a couple of rings. It was loud, shrill, and annoying. Perfect for a loud, shrill, and annoying mayor and his loud, shrill, and annoying wife.

Speaking of loud, shrill, and annoying mayors, Christophe turned around as he sensed someone approaching. Mayor Broflovski came ambling up behind him with a faint sense of urgency, as if he thought Christophe was a burglar. A polite burglar, he thought with cynical amusement, one who asked if they could have permission to rob one’s house, no, I see, that is quite alright, have a wonderful day. 

”Just a minute here,” Broflovski declared skeptically, as if he didn’t recognize Christophe. The jolt in his shoulders and the frantic step back told him that, in fact, he didn’t recognize him at first. “Are you soliciting?” He demanded, pointing a finger. “You haven’t got a license!”

“Why, no, mister mayor,” Christophe responded as he thought of how to fool the blind oaf this time around. A quick look at the door answered his call. “Mister mayor,” he said as he placed a hand on his shoulder, “I collect doorbells, and this particular specimen-“ he gave the small brass knob another turn as its trill pierced his ears, “has an unusual tone quality-“

“Flattery will not avail you,” Broflovski interrupted him loudly. “Soliciting is statutory in this county. Malfeasance without a permit.”

It was too likely that he had no idea what he was talking about. 

“Why haven’t you been over to River City Hall with your references?” Broflovski was furiously shaking a finger in Christophe’s face. 

“Well, I must have just missed you,” Christophe told him blandly as he removed the pencil he was holding behind his ear and placed it in his coat pocket. 

Broflovski was still rambling on about alibis when Christophe, fed up with watching his puny finger continue to wag right in front of his nose, grabbed his hand. “Oh, mister mayor!” He exclaimed, glaring at it in hopes to snag Broflovski’s attention. 

Unsurprisingly, Broflovski stopped and gave him a look as Christophe continued. “Your hand,” he observed, regarding it as if it were an undiscovered species. “Isn’t that amazing.” 

“What- what?” Broflovski demanded, watching as Christophe began to bend his fingers. 

He moved his pinky back and forth. “That spread of the little finger,” he explained, not taking his eyes off of his hand, more so to disregard Broflovski’s presence as much as he possibly could. “It is hereditary.”

Apprehensively, Broflovski asked, “It is?” Christophe gave a nod. “What does that mean?”

Lowering his hand, Christophe looked at Broflovski with great interest. “Why, it means that your daughter’s little finger is perfectly situated to operate the spit valve on a B flat flugelhorn!”

He’d be damned if he hadn’t just made up the name of a new storybook character rather than talk about an instrument. 

Broflovski gave a bewildered smile. “Is that good?”

“Good?” Christophe removed his hat. “It also means that America has finally produced an artist who can flugel the Minute Waltz in fifty seconds!” 

Like an excited child on Christmas, Broflovski’s eyes darted around in disbelief before he practically shouted “How can I get one of those horns?”

All according to plan. Christophe threw his hat back on as he fumbled for his notepad and pencil. “Sign here, mister mayor.”

“Yes sir!” Broflovski answered as he hungrily snatched the notebook out of Christophe’s hands.

“Fine, fine. That will be seventeen dollars, import fee,” Christophe informed as he handed Broflovski the pencil, who began to scribble away furiously. 

He shook his head, his grin faltering not once. “Just think,” he reveled, returning the notepad and pencil. “I could have missed this whole thing! My daughter could’ve-“ 

He supposed it was his own fault for not paying closer attention to the Broflovski Family Matters as Christophe watched Broflovski’s excitement drain from his face before shouting “I HAVEN’T GOT ANY DAUGHTER! AND HOW IS A DAUGHTER SUPPOSED TO JOIN A BOYS BAND!?”

Tipping his hat awkwardly, Christophe weaseled away as he heard the door open from whence he stood. 

“Oh, Gerald!” It was Mrs. Broflovski.

“I NEVER HAD ANY DAUGHTER!” Gerald continued to shout in Christophe’s direction, who tuned him out with ease.

Sheila paused. “I never said you did.” 

Frowning, Gerald shot her an irritated “What do you know?”

Her eyes widened as she returned his frown. “Well, I’d certainly know if I gave you a daughter!” 

“I’m not talking to you!” Gerald spat.

“Well, who are you talking to!?”

Gerald pointed furiously over his shoulder. “Him!”

“Who?”

Whipping around, Gerald found that the money grubbing little thief had somehow escaped from his clutches, and he was left to stew in embarrassment. “Never mind,” he grunted as he stormed angrily into the house.

Kyle watched as his father marched into his house, seemingly pissed about something. Fantastic. He despised when his father was in a mood, mainly because he received the blame for it. 

“Kyle,” his mother said as he approached her, looking rather exhausted. “Call Dr. Gouche for your father.”

***

“Ah, yes, my dear Mrs. Thorne, you must realize that only one out of every seventy-eight adults has a ganglion that reaches the ligature, clear down to the apex.”

In his arms was a bundle of laundry that Christophe was helping Gregory’s mother fold. At first, he was not even sure if it was his mother. If anything, she was more well suited to be his own mother. She didn’t even have an annoying British like her son, which, he supposed, was not necessarily a bad thing.

“This automatically turns your entire face into an amazing embouchure,” he continued as he lazily threw what looked to be an endless green cloth into the basket.

Mrs. Thorne looked at him worriedly. “Well, I’ve never had a sick day in my life, Doctor.”

Flashing her a grin after a moments pause of confusion, Christophe raised a finger. “Professeur,” he corrected. 

“Professor?” He nodded. “What shall I do for it?”

“No, you do not understand,” he answered, though he was the one who didn’t understand himself as to what she was talking about. “I am trying to tell you that you have all of the facial characteristics of a coronet virtuoso.” 

She began to turn away to pluck a shirt off of the clothes line, lacking any apparent interest in where he was going. “And if your boy has the same firm chin, and those splendid cheek muscles...” He forced a laugh as he was thinking of the little details he had gathered from studying Gregory so intently. “Mon dieu.”

His mother certainly wasn’t as chatty — when he wanted to be, that was — as his son. “Not that he could ever be great, you understand,” he added with a sympathetic shake of his head and glance at his feet.

“Oh, is that so. And in the name of Saint Bridgette why not?” He heard her say. 

He gave the shirt he was holding a shake. “Well. All of the really great coronet players were British.” 

“But Professor, we are British!”

Damn he was good. “No,” he gasped as he began to search for his notepad in his suit jacket, all the while exclaiming “No... really! Well, that clinched it. Sign here, madame.” He handed her the notepad and pencil. “Your boy was born to play the coronet.” 

She signed away before handing him the notepad. “Oh, fine, fine. That will be seven dollars, earnest money. Nothing more due until the first installment, payable at the opening of band practice.” 

He noticed she seemed to be reaching for something, and upon closer inspection revealed it was a dollar bill, which he snatched out of her hand, giving her a toneless “Thank you.” It was evident she had not been preparing to give him the money so soon. “And of course I will need your boy’s measurements for his band uniform.” 

“His uniform?” She asked rather skeptically.

“Oh, yes indee-“

The sound of something — no, someone — falling to the ground prevented Christophe from finishing his sentence. A smaller boy, probably eight or so, was recovering from his fall from the tree he had evidently been climbing on. He looked more like his mother than Gregory, Christophe analyzed as he looked at his rather stringy brown hair and prominent freckles. He wondered if Gregory was perhaps adopted, or had inherited all of his fathers genes. 

“Scott!” Mrs. Thorne exclaimed, sounding more exasperated than startled at the fact that her son could have broken a rib. 

Christophe looked at the boy, Scott, who glanced at him nervously. “Well, hello there, son,” he greeted as he bent down to help him up. Christophe dug his heels in the dirt as Scott evidently did not enjoy the help, and instead resorted to running away in his grip. “Why certainly his uniform,” he grunted as he attempted to wrangle the kid, dusting off the back of his shirt with a few swipes. He bent down to his level, looking in his startled brown eyes as he told him “And there won’t be a penny due until delivery, which gives him four weeks to enjoy, to anticipate, to imagine at no cost whatsoever. Never allow the demands of tomorrow to interfere with the pleasures and excitements of today.”

Embarrassing.

Scott continued to stare back at him, but Christophe sensed he was slowly beginning to let his apprehensions ease off. “Would it have a... a...”

“A?” Christophe repeated, unsure of why the runt couldn’t spit it out. He didn’t sound British, either. Scott looked at the ground before bending down and moving his hand from the cuff of his pants to the waist. “A stripe?” Christophe guessed. The twitch of the boy’s chin downward told him yes. 

“Why certainly my boy,” he answered. “A wide, red stripe down each side.” He moved his hands along the sides of his own pants before crouching down to his level. “Now. What do you think of that?”

Running away, that was what the boy thought of that. Christophe watched as he sprinted away from him and ran past the gate that led into the backyard. Alright.

“You’ll have to excuse Scott, Professor,” Mrs. Thorne told him sympathetically as he squinted at her dubiously. “We can’t get him to say three words a day, not even to us. And if you can get him to play in that band, you’ll have Saint Michael’s own way with you.”

Swallowing, Christophe realized with a frown that Mrs. Thorne had intended to sign Scott up for the band rather than Gregory. Though he supposed he should have known better, much better. He had thought that perhaps Gregory would buy into his scheme if he viewed the band with a more open minded approach, even if it meant resorting to joining under his mothers will, that he would finally leave him alone. Yes, that was a rather foolish plan with too many flaws in it to count. 

He wondered why he had allowed himself to concoct such a half baked proposal as she told him after a pause, “But if anybody could do it, I bet you can.” 

Dismissively tipping his hat to indicate he was beginning to overstay his visit, he turned to walk away as he bid a “Thank you” before getting stopped by Mrs. Thorne’s hand. 

“Where are you from, my boy?” She asked him.

“Gary, Indiana.” He responded quickly.

“Ah, yes. Ga... what?”

Impatience began to make its way into Christophe’s nerves as he nodded. “Gary, Indiana. Well, you see. I was born in France, but moved to Gary, Indiana at a very young age.” He added the information about France on the fly, as he knew his accent would likely raise suspicions. “In fact, Gary Conservatory was my Alma Mater.”

Mrs. Thorne shot him a look. “Was she now?”

Rolling his eyes, Christophe plastered a patient smile on his face. “Oh, yes, indeed. Ah, gold medal class of Aude ‘05.” He removed his hat before repeating thoughtfully “Gary, Indiana.” 

“What a wonderful name!” Mrs. Thorne gushed.

He pointed a finger as he slapped the hat back onto his head. “Named for Albert Gary, of judiciary fame.”

The look on her face indicated she wouldn’t drop the subject just yet. Like mother like son. Christophe exhaled through his nose as he knew he would have to serve his dignity atop a silver platter once more to get what he wanted, this time some peace and quiet. Though, and rather surprisingly, he had found himself beginning to get used to it. He still hated making a spectacle of himself, but he hated whining about it and sounding like a spoiled child even more.

Grabbing a stick that was poking up within the confines of a rather cramped vegetable garden, Christophe sang a “Gary, Indiana, as is Shakespeare would say...” He pretended to wipe the stick clean of any debris before swinging it and planting it at his feet and using it as a cane, “Drips along softly on the tongue this way.”

“Gary, Indiana, Gary Indiana, Gary, Indiana, let me say it once again.” He pointed at each “Gary” before dragging a rather surprised Mrs. Thorne to his side, who opted to perch upon the porch steps. He placed a foot on the edge of the wooden plank. “Gary, Indiana, Gary Indiana, Gary, Indiana, that’s the town that knew me when.”

Christophe traipsed to the opposite side of the porch steps, continuing “Now, if you’d like to have a logical explanation, how I happened upon this elegant syncopation.” He rested his chin in his hands which were crossed upon the stick, supporting it so as not to fall over. “I will say without a moment of hesitation, there is just one place that can light my face.”

Leaning against the porch rail, he reprised another chorus. “Gary, Indiana, Gary Indiana, not Louisiana, Paris, France, New York, or Rome.” He extended his arms dramatically before sparing a glance at Gregory’s mother who was watching with great interest. “But Gary, Indiana, Gary Indiana, Gary, Indiana, my home sweet home.” 

Opting for what little relief he could mentally provide himself while still captivating the attention of Mrs. Thorne, Christophe marched down the narrow dirt path of the Thorne backyard, occasionally sticking out his leg and theatrically removing his hat before placing it back on his head and continuing forward. He swung his legs a few more times before turning around and making his way back. He felt like one of those damned chicken ladies, strutting around and making a show of himself. 

Mrs. Thorne suddenly seemed to realize that she must attend to her laundry immediately as she gave Christophe a smile before going back to her clothesline. Christophe scaled the steps of the porch, stomping a few times before giving the rotating clothes line a spin with his stick. Losing patience yet again, itching to dismiss himself, Christophe watched as Mrs. Thorne bashfully did some fancy footwork herself. He hoped his impatience wasn’t visual.

He heard his mother’s voice coming from the backyard, and Gregory found himself pausing as he heard another voice. He heard it from the kitchen, though he was not able to distinguish it from anything other than deep and loud. As he approached the screened in porch, he recognized with dull horror that the scratchy, deep accented voice belonged to none other than Taupe. His back was facing Gregory, but he was learning (and rather unfortunately at that) to identify him from a mile away. 

Cautious footsteps entered Christophe’s ears as he turned around, hoping his suspicions were correct. They were, as he found himself looking up at Gregory, who stood on the porch appearing rather flustered, wondering why he was engaging in Happy Dance Time with his mother.

“How do you do, Mister Thorne,” Taupe greeted him as he took a step closer. That eager glint was back in his eyes, indicating he had been expecting him.

Gregory looked at his mother before back at Taupe, responding as steadily as he could, “How do you do, Mister Taupe.”

“Of course, Thorne!” Gregory wrinkled his nose and recoiled slightly as Taupe pointed a muddy stick in his face. “I thought the name sounded familiar. I have been trying to see you since the other night.”

His mother leaned forward, sounding rather enthused, “He wants to put Scott in the band.”

That woman would be lucky if she didn’t get the daylights knocked out of her. Christophe jolted around to face her, suddenly furious that she had to go and run her bouche like that. He braced himself for what scolding he would receive from Gregory this time; he could practically feel him tense up behind him.

Apparently Taupe had not been expecting his mother to say that, as Gregory watched him jolt forward and stride to her side, the anger in his eyes clear as day. However, he was attempting to restrain himself, as he could see his throat bob and his eyes flick around, even raising a knuckle to his mouth and biting on it. Nervous habit. 

“We are not interested, mother.” Though his words indicated he was referring to his mother, Gregory was addressing the sentence to Taupe, hoping, no, knowing he would take the hint. 

“But Gregory, dear,” his mother insisted, “he might have his father’s musical gift. He does have my ganglion, you know.”

Supposing he could formulate an excuse with that material, Christophe pointed the stick in Mrs. Thorne’s direction. “Your husband is musical? Well, I would like to talk to him.” 

Gregory was not enthused at the idea. Christophe heard him declare with a sharp tone, “Do you always burst into peoples homes, prying into personal affairs?” Surely enough, as Christmas faced him, admittedly a bit hesitantly, a furious scowl was plastered on his face. He looked angry, truly angry. “We’re not interested.” 

“Gregory!” Mrs. Thorne answered loudly. Christophe felt as if he were engaged in a game of monkey in the middle — he didn’t know who to direct his attention towards. 

“Well,” he announced as no indication of any further conversation hung in the air. “There is one for, and one against.” He made his way back to the foot of the stairs, looking back into Gregory’s eyes. “Now why not let the boy’s father decide?”

“The boy’s father is dead.”

Of course. 

Hesitating, Christophe struggled to find the appropriate words, which made him struggle even more. He absolutely despised being at a loss. But what was he supposed to say? Sorry about your dead father? Well, suck it up? I see, have a wonderful day? He found it suddenly taxing to maintain Gregory’s poignant gaze. 

“Anything else?” Gregory inquired, knowing full well even Taupe couldn’t dig himself out of the hole he had dug for himself.

“Well, I am sorry.” 

Gregory thought that for a split moment Taupe was being genuine. He was certainly giving him the benefit of the doubt, as there was nothing genuine about him. But his tone had a surprising gentility to it that he hadn’t heard before, and something about his expression looked off. He was stumped and had recognized his mistake.

Awfully quickly Gregory learned to take back any benefits or slack he had cut for the man as he spared no time jabbing a stick in his face, announcing defiantly “But that is all the more reason why your brother should have something like this!”

“My brother is an unhappy child who can’t understand why his father was taken away. Would you care to explain it to him? He’s been brooding about it for two years.” 

Christophe knew he was in for the long haul.

Flicking his chin Gregory continued, “And as for your musical tricks, why don’t you go into business with some nice carnival man who sells gold painted watches and glass diamond rings!?” 

Letting his anger get to the best of him, if only for a brief second, Christophe shouted “Musical tricks!” incredulously as he stomped up the porch steps and after Gregory. He was answered with a door slammed into his face as he growled “Now, Mister Thorne-“ From somewhere inside, another door slammed shut. Christophe lowered the stick he had been pointing rather threateningly before turning to face Ms. Thorne, forcing the burning scowl off of his face.

“Do you know I have a feeling he likes the idea?” He told her, taking a breath as his question sounded much too similar to a demand. “A little cautious, perhaps, but I admire that in a man. Well.” He dismissed himself and exited from the porch, rather eager to go. “You just keep me alive, and I will be back later in the week.”

Ms. Thorne apologized as he dug the stick back into the vegetable garden, where he had gotten it from. “I do hope you’ll excuse Gregory, Professor. He’s not really-“

“Oh, please,” Christophe scoffed, turning to face her. “Now don’t you worry about a thing.” He gave her a pat on the wrist as he told her with the hint of a smile “I am sure, that at heart, he is as lovely as yourself.” He gave one last raise of the hat as he excused himself. “Good day to you, Widow Thorne.”

Ms. Thorne gave him a prolonged look as he darted outside of the gate before she headed inside herself.


	12. Chapter 12

The sound of the kitchen door opening marked his mother’s entrance as Gregory angrily mixed a bowl of chocolate cake batter. He had decided to take his aggressions out on the mix. Stirring was all he could do not to fling the wooden spoon at the wall and watch it slide down, leaving a trail of chocolate mess behind.

“Has he gone?” He asked tensely, not taking his eyes off of the spoon.

“He has,” he heard his mother respond, “and I hope not forever. Darling, don’t you ever think of your future?”

Prying her nose into his business once again. He knew she meant well, being his mother and all, but couldn’t she see the absurdity of defending the man who had used the death of his father, her husband, as a sales pitch? 

Spooning the batter onto some wax paper, Gregory said bitterly “Now mother, a man’s future does not depend on encouraging every fast-talking, self-centered, man chasing traveling man who comes to town.”

Dishes clinking together was her response. Not really, of course. His mother always had something to say on every matter, which, he supposed, was hereditary. 

“Alright, darling, alright. Only, it’s a well known principle that if you keep the flint in one drawer and the steel in the other, you’ll never strike much of a fire.”

“Mother!” gasped Gregory, appalled as he watched his mother begin to turn back to the kitchen sink, clearly unfazed by her suggestions. He could hardly believe that his own mother would continuously defend the name of that sleaze, especially when she was aware of how much he upset him. 

Evidently, she didn’t take the hint as she continued, “A fine looking man. And educated. Gary, Indiana, Conservation. Class of Aude ‘05.”

Gregory refused to look up as he poured more batter from the bowl he was holding. “The fact that he claims his commodity is music does not-“ he shot his mother a glare as he heard her audibly sigh “-in this particular case impress me. Nor does anything else about him.”

Cynically his mother laughed to fill the curt silence that indicated he had made his point. “Well, I give up. At your age, if you don’t mind my asking, what are you waiting for?”

Truthfully, he was not too certain himself. He supposed it was a rather foolish reason, an unrealistic dream to have a man who would share his ideas and willingly listen to him with an open mind and an open heart while remaining direct and honest. River City would never fulfill his dream as long as he stayed in its confines.

“Well,” he began after a moment’s hesitation, “I’m not waiting for Fosse McDonald who backs me into the ancient history shelf every time he sees me.”

Of course, his mother only seemed amused at the news. “He does?”

“Or Mark Cotswolds who has the buggy with the removable back seat,” he spat, now pressing chocolate chips rather forcefully into the batter.

“Well, if you’re waiting for a knight in shining white armor to come riding up the street...” His mother trailed off, but Gregory didn’t need for her to finish.

Looking at her with forlorn replacing anger, Gregory responded quietly “I’m not waiting for that either, mother.”

He could see her look over her shoulder as she asked “Well, what are you waiting for? Gregory Thorne-“

The full name, he told himself bitterly as he fixated on his baking.

“-if you don’t mind my asking...” She trailed off once more and grabbed the now empty bowl. Gregory exhaled through his nose as he heard her ask “Don’t you ever think about being in love?”

He did, quite often. Much too often for his liking. He knew it was foolish to shy away from it, everyone fell in love. But it was the doubt, the poisonous apple of doubt and second-guessing that told him he would be one of the few exceptions, left alone to rot without purpose or feeling while the world continued to turn. 

However, and which was most foolish of all, was that he had begun to listen to that horrid little voice.

“Being in love, mother?” He repeated, watching as she began to busy herself with the dishes. “Being in love used to be my favorite dream, oh yes.”

Perhaps it was on account of his musical abilities, being a piano instructor and all, but Gregory occasionally found himself singing as a method to relieve stress. Strange, perhaps, yes. But there was an unidentifiable relief it provided, and, at the time being, he could use a hearty helping of relief.

And that was why he continued, explaining melodiously, “I’ve been in love more than anybody else has, I guess.” 

Gregory could tell his mother was smiling from behind. “My first love heroically ran the street car,” he confessed. He couldn’t help but smile to himself as he sang the next line, “I tingle at every clang-clang.”

Tensions that staled the air eased as his mother shook her head as they both acknowledged the absurdity of such a statement. “Next I fell for the principal, but, oh that teacher who sang ‘In the Gloaming.’”

Singing was his soapbox, as once he got on a roll, he found it hard to stop. Though, he knew there were worse habits to get into. 

“Knee-deep in love, what a lovely dream,” he pondered as he began to attend to his batter. “And yet, somehow, me deep in love is only half of what I’m longing for now.”

“I still love my being in love with someone.” He couldn’t help but feel rather foolish as he was sure his mother didn’t intend for him to sing his heart about his preferences for men. However, a part of him knew he wasn’t exclusively singing for her benefit. “But tell me, why couldn’t there be somebody being in love with me?”

Overcome by tantalizing urge to overshare, to explain, to have an audience, to have just one person listen to the feelings he had repressed to maintain the strong façade he tried so dutifully to uphold, Gregory put a hand on his mother’s arm as she went to place the saucer she was drying back in the cupboard.

“All I want is a plain man,” he declared, frowning. He sang with urgency, as if his life depended on it. “All I want is a modest man. A quiet man, a gentle man, a straightforward and honest man.”

There was no reason to be ashamed for having personal preferences, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should stop and continue baking. His mother didn’t need to hear this. He didn’t need to hear this.

“To sit with me in a cottage somewhere in the state of Iowa.” He placed himself down upon the stool he had been sitting on, feeling rather helpless as he continued “And I would like him to be more interested in me than he is in himself and more interested in us than in me.”

Foolish would be the word to describe his desires. It was selfish and horribly greedy to say such things, and he knew it, very well. That was why had secluded himself from blindly falling head over heels for another robot, an empty minded, steel hearted robot who only told him what he wanted to hear. However, a small part of him knew it wasn’t selfish at all to wish for his love to be reciprocated. It was human nature. It was natural, and it should be natural. And yet, he still found himself feeling needlessly guilty even thinking about it.

“And, if occasionally he'd ponder  
what makes Shakespeare and Beethoven great...” He trailed off as he attempted to stifle the mental tug of war that was raging inside his head. “Him, I could love until I die.” He hesitated before repeating it once more, as if he were forcing himself to believe it. “Him, I could love until I die!”

As he pried his hands away from the countertop, which he had trapped in a death grip without even realizing it, the doubt that had been kidnapping him for so long began to whisper. It was a very quiet whisper, muddled deep in his brain. But he heard it chide, is this truly what you want? Are you so fogged in disillusionment that you don’t even know what you want for yourself? Is it your heart or your mind speaking? How long will you continue to lie to yourself?

“Being in love, what a lovely dream!  
And yet, somehow, being in love's only half of what I'm longing for now.” He resumed his song as he immediately stifled the nagging whisper. “And so then, tonight I'll be in there dreaming, and hoping that someday there'll be-“ He rose, suddenly feeling rather overcome with powerful emotion. “-just once!”

He allowed himself to pause one more moment, closing his eyes.

“Somebody being in love with me.”

***

“Please, Kyle.”

Stan poked his head out from his side of the bookcase he was hiding behind in the library, with Kyle on the other side, who placed his hand on the wood and turned to face Stan.

“I can’t,” he told him, keeping his voice low. “I’m supposed to be doing my parallel reading.”

Grabbing Kyle’s arm, Stan attempted to give him his best puppy-dog eyes. He swore he could see a flicker of laughter dance in his eyes. “It’s just to the candy kitchen,” he pleaded. “Come on.”

Apparently, Kyle had decided he was done being amused with Stan’s ridiculous look. “With mom and dad shopping all up and down Center Street?” He placed his hand on Stan’s arm, slinking away. Stan heard him mutter a quiet but indignant “Egads.” 

“Alright,” Stan conceded, craning his neck to maintain eye contact as Kyle busied himself with the books on his side. “Then meet me after supper.” 

He should have known better than argumentative, stubborn Kyle to give in so easily. “I can’t,” he responded, looking around as if his overbearing parents were lurking in between the bookshelves. “It’s Epworth League tonight.”

No further discussion would come from Kyle, Stan thought as he watched Kyle slink back to hide behind the books. Resigned, he too leaned back and fixated blankly on the spines of the plethora of books before him. He loved Kyle. He was intelligent, the voice of reason, compassionate, and he had a great sense of humor. Stan admired him greatly, and just seeing him made his heart well up. And that was why it hurt the most when he watched his own best friend, his super best friend, as he called it — that received a snort from Kyle the first time he told him — it hurt the most when he watched him have to sacrifice his pleasures and enjoyment for the pleasures and enjoyment of his parents.

Suddenly, he could see a mass of red from his peripherals. He faced Kyle, who was peeking at him with a smile. “Meet you where?” 

“Footbridge,” Stan replied instantly with a grin.

Like that, Kyle’s mischief fell slack from his face as he looked disgusted. No, it wasn’t disgust. It was the look he gave when he was about to go on a long speech. 

“You see? Isn’t that just what I said? Last time the lumberyard, and now the footbridge!” He leaned closer to Stan, glaring at him to ensure he was listening. “Now where will you meet me after that? In the black hole of Calcutta? Egads!”

A “shh” answered so Stan wouldn’t have to, and both of them rolled their eyes as they leaned back to the bookcase. Stan absolutely couldn’t stand Gregory. He was arrogant, posh, and had a raging superiority complex. And worst of all, he was extremely intelligent and never appeared to second guess himself or his intuitions. It made him sick, the way he flaunted around, especially when he acted as though he could never understand Stan’s disdain. Getting slapped in the face by him for absolutely no reason didn’t do much to ease tensions. 

Kyle’s voice came from the other side of the bookcase. “It’s indecent to meet people at the footbridge.”

It took a hefty amount of self control to keep from laughing as Stan knew Kyle was likely quoting his parents, as he would never say anything like that without a hint of sarcasm.

Leaning over to look at his face, Stan asked, “First thing after supper?”

Kyle put his hand on top of Stan’s, which was resting on the edge of the bookcase. “Alright,” he laughed, giving it a squeeze. 

Stan gave another glare at Gregory as he shushed them once more before pretending to preoccupy himself with the selection before him.

Gregory stopped down to pick up the stack of books that was sitting on the bench of a table, raising his eyebrows in response to Stan Marsh’s glare. If he be damned for quieting him in an attempt to allow the rest of the patrons to concentrate on their reading, well, so be it.

Placing the stack of books onto the pulley, Gregory gave the cord a tug before pausing. 

The first book that was staring him right in the eye seemed to be shouting at him. Engraved onto the brown leather read “INDIANA STATE EDUCATIONAL JOURNAL 1890-1910” in large gold letters.

Like taking candy from a baby, Gregory immediately snatched the journal, giving it an open mouthed gawk as he dared to believe it was even in his possession. He could practically hear the thunder of Taupe’s husky voice. Gary, Indiana Conservatory, gold medal class of Aude ‘05. 

Biting his lip in subdued excitement, Gregory frantically opened the cover and leafed through its large pages, his heart quickening as he watched the words fly by in an instant. Perhaps he was finally being smiled upon. 

***

Rumbling distracted Ruby as she snapped her head up, pausing with one foot in the air as she attempted to maintain her balance on the hopscotch court she and Karen had drawn on the wooden planks. There was rumbling, accompanied by the sound of what appeared to be footsteps, no, clopping, the sound of a horse trotting by.

“The Well’s Fargo wagon,” she reported to Karen, eyes wide. 

“The Well’s Fargo wagon?” Karen breathed, crossing over to where Ruby stood, completely disregarding their game of hopscotch. 

Surely enough, a horse was pulling the telltale yellow and green wagon down the dirt path leading into the town. Evidently, Ruby and Karen had not been the only ones to note its arrival. Townspeople were already beginning to make their way to the town square. The arrival of the Well’s Fargo wagon already provided enough excitement on a typical lazy day in River City. In that instant, the excitement was much more akin to an electric shock, buzzing through the air as everyone could feel it itch beneath their skin and into their bones.

Ruby turned to ogle at Karen excitedly, the excitement so excruciating that it prompted her to chorus “O-ho, the Well’s Fargo wagon is a-coming down the street.”

“Oh, please let it be for me!” Karen responded, in tune, giving an excited grin before jogging down the street, with Ruby chasing behind. 

They were not the only townspeople who chose to convey their excitement in spontaneous song. All around, various faces chose to lend their voices, unified by high expectations and the thrill of the unknown.

“O-ho, the Well’s Fargo wagon is a-coming down the street.”

“I wish, I wish I knew what it could be!”

“I’ve got a box of maple sugar on my birthday,” an elderly lady informed her granddaughters.

“In March, I got a gray mackinaw,” interjected a passerby.

A mother was walking her two children down the street. “And once, I got some grapefruit from Tampa.”

“Montgomery Ward sent me a bathtub and a cross cut saw!”

Gerald and Sheila Broflovski were marching down the sidewalk and into town with the same sense of urgency. However, Gerald didn’t seem to be excited at all as he scowled, glaring at Sheila. “Is that the first thing I said or not?” he was saying to her.

Sheila rolled her eyes. “Yes, Gerald.” She knew he was only fishing for confirmations rather than an actual answer. 

He nodded curtly. “Yes. The very first thing I said, or I’ll leave hay with a horse! Get that spellbinder’s credentials, I said! Morning of Ju-ly 4th, 19 tw- tw...” he stuttered as he turned around to see Sheila had stopped for who knows what. She gave him a look before hurrying back up to him as he finished “-Twelve.” 

In hopes he would be quiet for two minutes, Sheila had snatched a cluster of pale little flowers, planning to dangle it in his face as she knew he would stop and give her a look.

“And now look,” he was ranting, gesturing to the entire town as he marched along angrily, “my wife is all... dancing at any and all hours instead of in the home.” He snatched the flower Sheila thrust in his face, throwing it to the ground and giving it a quick stomp as Sheila clicked her tongue. 

With only the sound of their footsteps, Sheila thought that maybe he had finally made his point. 

Of course not. 

“And the school board is singing up street and down-“ He cursed as a tree branch smacked him right in the forehead, swatting the leaves away like a cat, “-instead of turning to city matters! My oldest son is boodling around with some wild kid, and my businesses fell off so far I can’t find the balance sheet!” 

“Mayor Broflovski!”

Gregory attempted to catch his breath as he nearly stumbled into the mayor who appeared to be ranting and raving yet again. Mayor Broflovski looked at him irritably, as if he had interrupted a rather important speech. Disregarding Broflovski’s expression, Gregory nodded to the large book in his hands, the Indiana State Educational Journal.

“I found something very interesting in this book about Professor Taupe’s Alma Mater,” he explained quickly, slightly winded. He had ran as fast as he could as soon as he heard the mayor’s pinched voice rambling to his rather unimpressed wife. 

Mayor Broflovski didn’t seem too enthused. “I know all about that,” he grumbled dismissively. “In fact, that’s all I can ever get out of him! Gary Conservatory,” he recited in a fake French accent, “class of Aude ‘05.” 

Time was wasting. Each breath taken, each sarcastic comment made, each second ticking away allowed for Taupe to get closer and closer to fulfilling his sadistic goal of depriving River City from its money and its independence. “But if you just take time to read a little about the Conservatory,” Gregory pleaded breathlessly, holding the book in the crook of his elbow and frantically opening the cover, “you wouldn’t have to look any further. It’s on page-“

“Dad, the Well’s Fargo wagon is coming this way!” 

Ike Broflovski appeared a little red faced and winded himself as he burst in between Mr. and Mrs. Broflovski, nearly knocking them over. Sheila gave Ike’s shoulder a squeeze as she looked at her husband, who declared “Well’s Fargo wagon?” 

A hint of fear tugged at his words. He was clearly not expecting Taupe to had gotten this far, and Gregory found himself wondering the same thing.

“It could be the band instruments,” Ike continued, stating the obvious. 

“The band instruments!?” Gerald sounded outraged more so than excited and jolted forward. 

Frantically, Gregory grabbed his shoulder, pleading “But Mayor Broflovski-“

“Oh, later, later,” Gerald replied dismissively, shoving his way past Gregory’s grip. It was evident by his tone that there would be no later. He watched as both Broflovski and his wife spared no time hurrying to the center of town, Ike already having taken off.

All of River City was packed onto the sidewalk, waiting eagerly to find out what was in store inside the closed doors of the wagon. All of the townspeople chanted in hushed excitement, “O-ho, the Well’s Fargo wagon is a-coming now, is it a prepaid surprise or C.O.D.?”

“It could be curtains!”

“Or dishes!”

“Or a double boiler!”

“Or It could be-“

“Yes it could be,” the townspeople chanted, each person craning and competing to get the first glance of the wagon, “yes, you’re right, it surely could be-“

“Something special-“

“Something very, very special now-“

“Just for me!”

The line of River City townspeople seemed to be never ending as more and more people contorted their way into the crowd, all the while chorusing “O-ho, the Well’s Fargo wagon is a-coming down the street, oh, don’t let him pass my door. O-ho, the Well’s Fargo wagon is a-coming down the street, I wish I knew what he was coming for!”

“I got some salmon from Seattle last September.”

“And I expect a new rocking chair.”

“I hope I get my raisins from Fresno!”

It was the school board who joined in now, having become quite buddy-buddy with each other and posing as town idols for their singing abilities. Christophe had been correct when he announced they would never be seen apart. “The D.A.R. have sent a cannon for the courthouse square!”

Karen, who had managed to squeeze herself towards the front of the line, startled when she heard a voice next to her begin to sing. She was not surprised by the singing, but by who the singer was. 

“O-ho, the Well’th Fargo wagon ith a-coming now, I don’t know how I can ever wait to thee.”

Scott, Mister Gregory’s little brother, who had been standing next to her and watching with wide eyes had suddenly and unexpectedly began to sing. Karen had never heard him say a full sentence, perhaps not even that many words, period, but especially not in song.

He continued, slightly nervous as he gave Karen an apprehensive glance, “It could be thumthin' for thumone who is no relathin but it could be...”

Waving to pull him forward and signal to come here, Karen saw Mister Gregory from across the street, who clearly heard the same thing she did, and she watched as he hurriedly ran to her and Scott’s side.

He couldn’t believe it — he truly, couldn’t believe it. His own brother, his little brother, haunted by the mystery of his father’s death, taunted by his lisp, burdened with the weight of never living a “normal” (Gregory winced to himself, he hated to use such generalities) childhood, was now, in front of the entire population of River City, barely batting an eye, not turning away, not hanging his head, not itching to run, singing to the townspeople. 

Gregory crouched to look at Scott and Karen in wonderment. She was just as thrilled and as shocked as he was.

“Thumthin’ thpethul,” Scott lisped, looking Gregory in the eyes, with nary a hint of fear or anxiety, “jutht for me!”

For what seemed to be the first time in his life, Scott gave Gregory a sheepish smile, clearly proud of himself. Gregory pulled him into a hug, rapidly attempting to grapple the magnitude of what he had just witnessed. He had witnessed the birth of a new boy.

Taking his hand, Gregory led Scott to where the townspeople were gathering, chasing the wagon that potentially held the instruments they were longing after so hungrily. 

The townspeople gave one last chorus as they wondered who would be the first to open the doors.

“O-ho, you Wells Fargo Wagon keep a-comin'.  
O-ho, you Wells Fargo Wagon  
keep a-comin'.  
O-ho you Wells Fargo Wagon,  
Don't you dare to make a stop  
Until you stop for me!”

Stan Marsh was the one who revealed the fate of the townspeople. Jogging to the back doors, he managed to unloop the metal lock as he kept up with the speed of the wagon. As he pried open the wooden doors, the hungry grin of Professor Taupe greeted him with a triumphant thumbs up. 

Moving out of the way to let him off, Stan noticed he was holding an instrument. He thought it looked like a baby trumpet until realizing it was one of the cornets he had been talking about. He was sitting on top of large, lumpy brown shapes wrapped in brown paper and string. The instruments were here.

Christophe was greeted with a sea of thunderous shouts and applause as he leapt into the congregation, holding the cornet above his head to indicate that yes, he had fulfilled his promise. He darted through the crowd, giving short waves and nods of acknowledgement as the townspeople treated him like a deity, their new savior.

He found what he was looking for as he pointed a finger to the face of a delighted Scott as he jogged over to meet him and Gregory.

“Here you are, Scott,” he declared proudly, and Gregory watched as Taupe handed a gleaming brass coronet into the hands of his little brother. Scott absolutely lit up in a way he had never fathomed was possible. It was as though there were fireworks in his eyes as he wore the biggest grin Gregory had ever seen on a child.

“My cornet! Gee, thankth, Profethor!” Scott didn’t once take his eyes off of his new instrument as Taupe glanced up at Gregory and flicked his eyebrows before streaking away, attending to the rest of the crowd. 

Gregory was at a loss of words, watching as Taupe threw his hat in the air into the crowd. There was a large uproar of yelling as he could hear Stan Marsh yell “I caught it!”, met with excited applause. He could see Taupe smack the hat onto Stan’s head and violently tussle his hair beneath it, in a manner that was practically fatherly. 

“Gregory, Gregory!”

Scott’s squeaky voice tore his attention away from Taupe. Gregory realized he had been staring.

“Ithn’t thith the motht thcrumpthiouth tholid-gold thing you ever thaw?” He spat eagerly, and Gregory realized with a pang that this was the most he had ever heard his brother talk. But, most of all, his brother was talking to him, entrusting him with his delighted thoughts about his scrumptious solid-gold cornet, that he wanted Gregory to listen, to see what he saw, even through his lisp.

“I never thought I’d ever thee anything tho thcrumpthiouth ath thith tholid-gold thing,” he continued breathlessly before hugging Gregory. As Gregory patted his back, watching the mayor and his wife approach, he thought to himself that this was the first time he could ever recall Scott hugging him on his own will.

Christophe handed a particularly heavy package to the bored looking man he recognized from the library. “Now, remember men,” he announced, “stay off the streets, pay attention to your instruments, and think about the Minuet in G.” He tapped his temple as the crowd of young men nodded.

Waving his arms, Christophe lead them in song, giving a rather rusty and standard “La di da di da di da,” allowing them to finish. A mixture of high and low voices joined in as he backed away, nodding, flicking his wrist. “That’s it,” he confirmed, turning around to find himself face to face with The Grand Chicken Lady. Today she had opted for yellow, wearing black gloves and matching black feathers. Even chickens needed a change of appearance.

“Round one for you, Mister Taupe,” Broflovski snarled, pointing a finger in his face. Evidently making a grand entrance and living up to his promise of giving the town their instruments wasn’t sufficient enough. “But I better hear some damn tooting out of those horns in pretty short order, or I’ll see you in front of the grand jury over at the county thief!”

Unsure of what a county thief was, Christophe watched Broflovski and his Chicken Wife march away. Broflovski paused, only now realizing what he said made no sense. “Uh, yeah,” he muttered before walking away into Gregory’s direction.

Gregory could see Taupe roll his eyes over the shoulder of Mayor Broflovski as he bit down a laugh, sharing his pain. 

“Now, Gregory, about that book-“

Mrs. Broflovski tapped her husband’s shoulder, frowning. “Gerald, come along,” she told him rather loudly. “Tempest fugit.”

He could feel Taupe’s eyes on him as Gregory once again peeked over Broflovski’s shoulder. Sure enough, Taupe was shaking his head, looking at Gregory in disbelief. 

Remembering the book in his hands, Gregory quickly turned his back to the Broflovskis as he opened to the page covering Gary Conservatory. With a deep breath, he gripped the top of the page and ripped it cleanly out of the book, crinkling it into a ball and holding it behind his back as if nothing had ever happened.

“You watch your phraseology,” Broflovski was scolding his wife. “Go along if you want to. I’ve got to get something from the librarian.”

As Mrs. Broflovski ranted to herself, walking away bitterly, Broflovski turned back to Gregory, appearing mildly irritated. “Now that book, uh,” he reiterated, looking down at the book Gregory was holding out in his hand. He didn’t say anything, just grabbed it sharply with both hands and gave an awkward nod, shuffling away.

As he watched them walk away, Gregory’s heart gave a jolt as he looked down at the cornet his brother was clinging onto. The rest of the townspeople’s instruments were still kept in the security of their packaging. Taupe had dug through the piles of instruments and tore it open. He had planned to give Scott the very first instrument.

Bending down, Gregory opened his mouth to talk to Scott when a voice interrupted him. 

“Ladies dance committee meets Tuesday nights at the high school.” It was Taupe, bending down to look at him with his hands on his knees. “I know you are... not a lady, and all...” He gave a chuckle, rather nervously, as if he expected Gregory to rap his knuckles with a ruler. “But, I have seen your skills. And I think you are the most capable person to teach them.” He gave a pause. “They will be counting on you.”

In that moment, when Gregory looked into Taupe’s eyes, which were surprisingly gentle, he suddenly felt a piercing pain stab his chest. It felt as though somebody had thrown a harpoon and it landed straight through his heart, causing it to disintegrate into little bits and pieces. He fought the urge not to keel over in pain and crumple to the sidewalk. 

He knew it was not pain. 

In front of him was the man who saved the life of his brother. The man, with his crooked grins, his brief scowls, his exaggerated hand movements, his twinkling eyes, his messy hair, his raise of the eyebrows, his rugged voice, his captivating demeanor, the man who Gregory had so bitterly attempted to ignore, to shake off, to disregard, this man, this Professor Taupe, this man had done the impossible. He had preserved the naivety, the energy, the wonder, the curiosity in a boy who Gregory had foolishly assumed was a lost cause. 

This man saved his brother.

This man saved him.

Gregory knew, as he rose slowly to meet Taupe’s eyes, that the man was a spellbinder. He had known it since he first came to town, three days ago. But now, just now, he was feeling the effects of his spell.

The page he held behind his back was proof that he, too, had been taken in. 

He had found his someone.


	13. Chapter 13

“Hurry along, ladies!”

Sheila Broflovski stood on top of the blue wooden stage platformed in the River City High School’s gymnasium, shouting “Hurry along! Tempest fugit!” as her crowd of women hurriedly scrambled onto the stage with her.

“Let’s start with our posture exercises.” She handed out the scandalous books she had checked out from the library, watching as each of her ladies placed a book carefully atop her head. It was quite the sacrificial motive, willingly checking out those dirty books that brazen librarian held in his possession. Yet, she figured they would do much more good used to improve posture, in comparison to sitting on those dusty shelves, where another victim may fall into the trap of the librarian’s and willingly read his propaganda. 

Helen Tweak, who was sitting at the pianola, pressed the button and stepped down on the pedal that sparked the twinkling music to come to life. All of the ladies on stage—Sheila, Sharon, Linda, Liane, Bebe—marched in a slow circle. They kept their arms outstretched, trying their best not to let the books fall from their heads and face the wrath of Sheila Broflovski.

“Lovely, ladies. Lovely!” Sheila had moved to the corner of the stage and out of the circle, keeping the book balanced on her head. “Now turn. Take the body with you—lovely! Lovely, ladies! Now for our Grecian Urn!”

Tiptoeing so as not to cause the book beginning to wobble on her head to topple, Sheila once again joined the circle. Together they joined hands as Sheila declared “One Grecian Urn!” Right on cue as the ladies leaned back and put one foot into the circle, a chorus of smacks vibrates through the gymnasium walls as five books slammed to the ground. 

“Two Grecian Urn,” Sheila announced coldly as the ladies glanced at the books that lie on the stage. Taking the hint, they ignored the fallen books in favor of striking a rather ridiculous pose, holding hands and bending legs behind them. 

The minuscule audience of fellow dance committee members applauded their absurdity.

“That’s lovely!”

“Oh, that’s just amazing!”

“And a fountain,” Sheila proclaimed as the ladies connected hands once more and crowded in a circle with Sheila in the middle, who was crouching. She unfurled her body and expanded her arms when she was standing up straight, the ladies beaming at each other. 

Rather than being embarrassed as she probably should have been, Sheila clapped her hands, enthralled. “Oh, splendid, ladies! Splendid,” she crooned as everyone exchanged relieved glances. “Our Del Sartre display will be the highlight of the ice cream sociable! Once again. Practice makes perfection—which is what we want!”

A large wooden wall had divided the gymnasium into two. One side for the ladies dance committee, and one side for band practice. Boys and men sat on the wooden bleachers, rather cramped as they held their brand new instruments in their hands.

“And remember men,” Christophe told them. He was perched on top of a gymnastics vault, giving them yet another lecture for band practice. “If you want to play the Minuet in G...” Once again he allowed himself to trail off in favor of tapping his temple. “Think the Minuet in G. It is the simple meeting of two minds, yours and Beethoven’s. All together now.”

Raising his arms, Christophe was interrupted as a little boy shouted “Professor!” and stood up.

It was the little blonde boy he had seen in the town square on his first night in River City. Before Christophe had an opportunity to ask him what his problem is, the boy continued in an annoying accent, British, maybe, “I cannot even think of how to hold the horn right.” He raised his French horn, as if Christophe were incapable of seeing the damn thing already. It practically took up half of the kid’s body. “There are these little spickets on the side, but which one is which?”

“Aha,” Christophe replied as he pointed a finger at the little louse. He wasn’t about to let him know that he had not a clue. “Experimentation. Trial and error.” 

Lifting his hands once more, the scab wasn’t done with quizzing him. “Could you show me, Professor?” He asked, approaching Christophe and holding up the French horn.

Christophe muttered a “no” under his breath as he placed a hand on his forehead, running his mangy hair through his fingers as he instructed himself to come up with another excuse. Fooling brain-dead adults was one thing. They barely fought back. Kids were another thing. They liked to ask questions upon questions upon questions, until their snide little voices got so excruciatingly annoying the temptation to drive a nail into your own forehead did not seem like such a bad idea. 

Deciding not to waste his time on the runt, Christophe only gave him a bored stare. “Son, I am going to tell you something the great Giuseppe Cleatory said to me under like circumstances.” 

Pipsqueak, as Christophe had nicknamed him mentally, lowered the French horn, appearing more fearful than anything.

“‘Professeur Taupe’, he said, ‘that is your instrument.’” Pipsqueak looked down at his French horn as Christophe pointed to it. “‘Hold onto it. Cherish it. Do not let anybody else play around with it. Not even me-‘“ he gestured to himself, “‘-not even you, until you feel you are ready.’”

Finally, Christophe believed he had shut him up, and he turned his focus back to the crowd before Pipsqueak stammered “But-“

Christophe merely threw up a hand in front of the boy, who frowned. “Yes, sir,” he answered in a resigned voice as he shuffled his stupid little way back to the bleachers. 

“All together now,” Christophe told the men. He gave a quick survey around the crowd to make sure no other lice like Pipsqueak were about to bombard him with useless little questions he had to bullshit his way out of. “Over and over.” 

One more survey confirmed no one was itching to jump out at him, and Christophe waved his arms, leading them off with the same rusty “la di da di da di da” he had been spoon feeding them for a week.

“Stan.” He motioned for Stan to come to his side as the rest of the boys picked up where he had left off. Christophe watched Stan do a double take, looking around for any other Stan that lurked in the corners before pointing at himself. Christophe gave a nod, and Stan jogged to his side.

“Take charge of the group,” he told him in a low voice, grabbing his arm. “Another half hour—at least—on the Minuet.”

He could see the mental battle in Stan’s eyes as he went from confusion, to doubt, to disbelief, until he shrugged and gave Christophe a formless smile. Christophe turned Stan so he stood in his place, giving another bland chorus of “la di da”s, nodding to Stan who raised a hand himself.

Backing away, Christophe observed Stan, who took matters away into his own hands. Christophe almost felt pitiful for roping him into his conning scheme; he was a good kid, hard-working and loyal. Christophe looked over his shoulder as he snuck over to the door that led to the gymnasium’s exit. He gave one last thoughtful rub of his hands before darting through the door, constructing his next plan of action.

***

Perching himself on the medal stool, Gregory gave the blonde boy behind the candy kitchen counter a polite smile. “Strawberry phosphate, please.”

The blonde boy picked up two rather large ice cream sundaes, giving him a nod. “Well, uh-right with you,” he stammered. The boy carefully maneuvered his way past the counter and approached the table, where a messy-haired man wearing a green suit had his hands over the eyes of two men. 

Christophe raised his elbow to allow the boy to slip the sundaes he had ordered for Stan and Kyle beneath his arms. He removed his hand from Kyle’s eyes first, who immediately shot his head down to look at what had been placed before him.

“Egads!” He exclaimed as he looked at the sundae and then Christophe, who gave him a wink and clicked his teeth in return.

Stan gave a “Great honk!” as Christophe pulled his hand away from his eyes, and both he and Kyle immediately dug in.

Christophe gave the soda boy a handful of coins before telling Stan and Kyle “If there is anything you do not see there, be sure and ask for it.” 

The boys flashed him grateful looks as thanks as Christophe began to step away to leave them be. When he lifted his head, he found what he had been looking for without even having to ask.

Sitting at the counter was Gregory, who had his hands folded and was waiting rather expectantly. 

Christophe made his way past Stan and Kyle and snuck up to the counter, clearing his throat behind Gregory’s shoulder.

Gregory turned around to see Taupe looking at him expectantly, a smile quirking at his lips as he watched Gregory realize who had been the one to startle him.

“Oh, Professor Taupe—I didn’t see you,” Gregory stammered, and Christophe realized that he was smiling at him.

The last time Christophe had saw him, Gregory looked like he had shit his pants. His eyes had been the size of marbles when he suggested he lead the ladies dance committee, and when he didn’t open his mouth to object or even accept, Christophe considering alerting the paramedics. Half jokingly, of course. Yet, now, he felt as though he should raise the back of his hand and put it to Gregory’s forehead, as he wasn’t glaring daggers at him or looking mildly uncomfortable, shifting in his seat or biting his lip. Instead, he looked as if he _wanted_ Christophe to join him. 

“May I join you?” He asked, smiling. Though, truthfully, he was smiling because he knew he had gotten to Gregory—the real Gregory, the Gregory Clyde had said would be impossible to win over. Look at him now, Christophe thought to himself, practically seeing the dumbfounded look on Clyde’s goofy face already.

He hadn’t expected Taupe to join him, though he supposed Taupe was a rather unexpected person to begin with. Even Gregory had trouble analyzing his erratic patterns. “Well, really, I-“

“Where!? Where!? They were seen!”

Both Gregory and Christophe turned immediately to face the commotion that burst behind them. Broflovski had thrown open the door of the candy kitchen with his wife on his tail. He was red faced and taking large, heaving gasps of air that Christophe knew was from anything but exhaustion. 

“Red handed! Caught in the act!” 

Broflovski matched to where Stan and Kyle were sitting, looking absolutely enraged. Kyle gave Stan an open mouthed look of unadulterated horror, silently begging for help as his father stormed over to their table.

“Take your hands off my son!” Gerald commanded to Stan, who rose anxiously, gripping the back of his chair.

Kyle followed, giving a desperate “Dad!” as Gerald tensed and glowered at him before whirling back to face Stan, trembling.

Knowing full well that his boyfriend would be dead meat, or, maybe himself first, Stan swallowed before frowning and looking Gerald directly in the eye. “Mister mayor,” he stammered, reaching to rub the back of his neck nervously, but suddenly thinking better of it, “your honor... your son and I are going steady behind your back.”

Kyle shrunk away as he watched his mother give him a bewildered glare. However, as he desperately tried to reach his senses and appear much more confident than he felt, he realized that the glare was in regards to his father, who was beginning to turn purple, shouting a “Why, you-!” as he raised his fists. Somehow, miraculously, his mother was on his side.

“But... we’d rather be doing it in front of your back,” Stan continued, slowly gaining confidence as he spared Kyle a reassuring look. 

Suddenly, Gerald paused, blinking. “Do what?” All traces of anger was absent from his tone.

Really? Stan gave Kyle another look before mumbling “Well, uh-“

“NEVER MIND!” Like a light switch Gerald snapped back into his fit of rage, looking at Stan with fifteen times the intensity than was present just mere seconds ago.

“Kyle’s scared of you, but I’m not!” Stan argued, pointing a finger to himself. He hated to out Kyle like that, he knew it was humiliating, but he didn’t even know if Gerald knew or cared, and that wasn’t right. “I should think you’d hate to have your own son afraid of you!” He gave Kyle a nod and an apologetic blink before exclaiming, “Great honk!”

Recoiling as if he had just been damned to hell, Gerald gave a silent gasp before jabbing a finger in Stan’s face with a hint of uncertainty. “I’m going to warn you once more,” he snarled, unblinking, “if I ever catch you touching my son, I’ll goddamn horse-whip you ‘till hell won’t have it anymore!”

“Now Gerald!”

Kyle was shocked as he watched his mother defend him, him and Stan, their relationship, as she defiantly raised a finger. 

Gerald was not having it. “Not one poop out of you, madam!” He snapped, turning back to Stan.

A pause. Unexpectedly, Sheila turned to Kyle, and he saw that she didn’t appear to be pissed or worried. She just gave him a cynical smile as she told him, chuckling, “I think he means ‘peep’.” 

She immediately stopped laughing as Gerald shot her a ferocious glare. He shook his head, muttering “Yeah.”

It was pretty stupid of him to think he would finally shut up as Stan listened to Gerald berate him once more. “Now get out of this public emporium!” 

Deciding he wouldn’t let Gerald get away with allowing his son to live his life fearing him, Stan took a step closer to him. “I got as much right in a-“ He stammered, trying to wrap his head around Gerald’s strange vocabulary, “-public emporium as anybody!” 

Evidently, Gerald did not think that was the case. “Right!?” He roared, trembling. “How do you get any right around here, aiding and abetting the swindling activities of this-“ he pointed to Christophe, who was watching the drama rather intently with Gregory flanking his side, “-spellbinding cymbal salesman!?”

Gregory heard Taupe make a rather disapproving grunt as he began to lift his hand, itching to argue back, but watched as he shook his head and continue to spectate from the sidelines. 

“Do you know what I see written all over you? Reform school! Now, GET OUT!” Gerald was shooing Stan as if he were a pest. “Get out, you wild kid, you!”

“Dad, please!” 

Kyle gave Stan a gentle nudge, urging him to get out while he could as he distracted his father, who turned his aggression to him. Kyle inhaled through his nose as he brushed past his mother and squinted directly into his father’s blazing eyes. “It’s Capulets like you make blood in the marketplace,” he recited heatedly, “egads!” 

Kyle had always jokingly told Stan that they were the new Romeo and Juliet, star crossed lovers bound to the red string of fate, resting between the scissor blades of his father’s prejudices. However, he had grown fond of its “cheesiness” (as Stan found it anyway; Kyle knew he secretly enjoyed it).

“You watch your phraseology, young man!” Gerald snarled. Kyle knew that he had beaten him regardless. He and Stan both triumphed when Stan had boldly told him of their relationship. “Go home!”

With the mindset that he had secretly won in mind, Kyle followed his mother when he found himself stumbling backwards. Professor Taupe had grabbed his arm to prevent him from going any further. When he and Kyle made eye contact, he could see that he seemed pretty pissed, though he knew it was at his dad and not him. Kyle stepped away from his grip, grateful for the unspoken message that he had some form of support and that it was pathetic to give up. Fight until the end.

Right away, Gerald snagged Kyle’s hand and dragged him away from the sleazy swindler who had stopped him in his tracks. They both gave each other a mutual scowl as Gerald grumbled “Taking up with wild kids from the wrong side of town-“

“Mayor Broflovski!”

It was Gregory’s turn to interject this time as he couldn’t stand to watch this bozo treat his own son and his lover so insensitively. “If I could just make you understand-“

“Well, you can’t!” 

He turned to herd an irritated Kyle out into the street before freezing. “And by the way,” he groused, and Gregory fought the urge not to roll his eyes, “thanks for the buggy ride.   
I read that book you gave me from cover to cover for a whole week now and didn’t find a thing!” 

How peculiar, Gregory thought to himself smugly as he watched Kyle tug at his father’s arm, beginning to grow embarrassed. 

“Mister mayor, if you please-“

“I’ll settle your hash as soon as I get these premises off my oldest son,” Gerald threatened to Christophe, both of them pointing fingers at each other. Christophe made a point to shoot Gregory an unenthused glare, who returned it with an exasperated shake of the head and a soundless sigh. 

Gerald paused yet again, giving an awkward “yeah” to confirm his statement. Christophe frowned and continued to point a condescending finger in his face.

“Alright,” he grunted indifferently, unfazed by his meaningless threats, “but in the meantime, I would like you to know I am vouching for Stan Marsh. That boy has the confidence of every kid in this town.” 

Though it was Taupe who was arguing against Broflovski and not himself, Gregory still couldn’t help but feel a pinch of pride in his chest as he shot Broflovski a smug look, listening to Taupe continue fervently.

“You will be standing in line, waiting to shake his hand by the time our band plays its first concert.” Christophe could see Kyle grinning, rather full of himself. He would be first in line, Christophe thought with amusement, though he would certainly be waiting for more than a handshake.

Broflovski wasn’t convinced. “By that time, my fine young feathered-“ Christophe folded his arms as he watched the oaf struggle to make his nonexistent point once again. “-my feathered young... my feathered fine... NEVER MIND!” 

Snagging Kyle’s wrist once more, Gerald yanked him behind as he stormed out of the door, greeted by the sound of four men guffawing and carrying on with each other.

“Jimbo! Randy! Stuart! Richard!” The men quieted at an instant as Kyle watched his father declare them the victims of his anger. “I want that man’s references and I want them tonight! He’s more slippery than a Mississippi... sturgeon.”

Christophe watched as Gregory received a violently red drink that made his teeth rot just looking at it. It looked as though someone had poured cough syrup directly into a glass and then threw a straw in it. He had never been particularly fond of the sweet stuff. 

“I think Mayor Broflovski behaved abominably,” Gregory told Taupe who was, to his pleasure, listening to him with great attention, giving him a curt nod in response. “And I think it was wonderful of you, sticking up for Stan Marsh the way you did.”

Christophe gave a shrug. “Oh, that was nothing,” he answered modestly. Poor Gregory would be absolutely unaware of how much truth resided in such a statement. 

He, not without a spoonful of hidden displeasure, raised a finger to catch the soda boy’s attention before pointing to Gregory’s cough syrup drink and back at himself. 

Meanwhile, Gregory raised his chin. “Oh yes it was!”

When it was evident he was not going to elaborate or make any follow-up statements, Christophe shrugged once more as he observed Gregory take a rather dainty sip of his tooth rotting juice. “Well, a man cannot go back on his principles merely because a little... personal risk is involved,” he pontificated, watching Gregory nod out of the corner of his eye. “What does the poet say? Ah... a coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man...” Predictably, he had no idea which foamy-mouthed poet said what, “...only five hundred?”

Gregory couldn’t help but exchange a grin with Taupe, who had been making an effort, at least. “Something like that,” he said, laughing. He watched as Taupe accepted his drink with a quiet “Merci. Thank you.”

“Get his papers or get him in jail,” Gerald was ranting to the school board, who all exchanged indifferent expressions. Ever since they had harnessed their hidden powers of song, Gerald didn’t appear to be nearly as threatening as he used to. “I couldn’t make myself any clearer if I was a buttonhook in the well water!” With that, he left the school board to decipher his similes as he yanked his son away and hurried down the street.

Just as he had predicted, the cough syrup sugar bomb of heart palpitations he ordered was sickeningly sweet. However, Christophe forced himself to suck down a strawful when he saw Gregory get that look in his eye. He was planning to speechify about something.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Scott’s cornet,” he declared matter of factly, and Christophe couldn’t help but feel as though he was in trouble, bracing for a scolding. 

Gregory watched as Taupe licked his lips and gave his drink a malcontented glare before answering “Ah, yes. A beautiful instrument.” He turned to face Gregory, and he could see the corners of his eyes crinkling, the way they always did when he knew Gregory was just bursting to respond. “Hand hammered brass, mother of pearl keys.” 

“Well, he never touches the cornet.” Gregory noticed Taupe tense, as if it were his fault. He was more so curious than anything, and Gregory hoped he hadn’t come off as too demanding.

The workshop of Christophe’s mind buzzed to life as he formulated an excuse, listening to Gregory ramble on. “He said you told him it wasn’t necessary.”

“Well, now,” Christophe explained after a moments hesitation, his eyes unfocused as the gears in his mind clicked into place. “You must understand, Gregory-“

“Something about a...” Gregory tried to remember what his brother had called it. He seemed particularly eager about it, as if it were a new musical breakthrough simply waiting to be released to the public world. “A think system.” He nodded, that was it. “He says if he thinks the Minuet in G, he can play it.”

Swirling his straw around in his drink, Christophe contended “I agree it is still in the experimental stages...” He tried to get a read on Gregory’s face, who was bent over his straw, taking a sip of his own drink. He didn’t look angry or worried, which was a good sign. He seemed curious, as he saw that he was peeking at him out of the corners of his eyes expectantly. Apparently, they both wanted to see what the other was thinking. “Well. I suppose to a seasoned professional like yourself, it may seem ludicrous.”

Seasoned professional, he hadn’t heard that one before. Gregory felt his eyes widen as he processed the compliment, suddenly feeling rather atwitter. However, he realized that Taupe was calling his own work ludicrous, as if he doubted his abilities himself. He wouldn’t allow him to question the good he had done, even if he didn’t realize it. Yet, the way he looked at him after he had handed Scott the cornet indicated that he wasn’t completely unaware. That wasn’t a bad thing, either.

“Oh, you mustn’t say that!” Gregory gasped, and Christophe raised his eyebrows in mirth. Had he said the same thing a week ago, Gregory would have gone on a spiel about how his work was more than ludicrous, how he was plaguing the minds of River City, that he had no right to even think of advertising his spellbinding motives. But now, here he was, sitting next to him, seeming rather concerned over Christophe’s discrediting of his own work. 

Gregory was grateful Taupe was so willing to listen to him and engage in a thought provoking conversation. He watched as Taupe didn’t say anything, just returning his stare with an intrigued look about him.

Apparently that was all Gregory had to say on the matter, as Christophe once again found himself pausing for a more illuminating answer. He was only met with a stare, a stare that hinted of admiration. What a strange man. 

“I mustn’t?” He asked, and that was one of the few things he had said with absolute, genuine truth. 

It was as if he were a buffoon for thinking otherwise. “No!” Gregory insisted, flicking his chin dubiously. “Why, throughout history the true originator is always laughed at!”

He supposed there was a hint of truth in that statement too, Christophe thought as he took another sip of his drink, wincing. It was not as bad as it was when he took the first sip, but its combination of tanginess and sugar made him want to impulsively smash the glass in two as he could feel it electrify his bones and send shockwaves through his skin. 

“I hope you don’t class me with those small minds who ridicule...” Gregory trailed off as he had found himself becoming distracted simply by Taupe’s presence.

“Galileo?” Christophe offered after forcing down a swallow of his drink.

“Yes, and his conception of the heavens,” Gregory answered, staring unfocused ahead of him before bending his head down to take a sip.

“Or Fulton,” Christophe continued, trying to list off every philosopher he had learned. He had confessed to finding some instances of history rather interesting, but philosophy was not one of those aspects. 

“Yes. Or Columbus,” Gregory said as Christophe once again bent his head down to take a sip. As mouth-shiver inducing as it was, he refused to let it go to waste.

“And his conception of the egg—ah, globe,” Christophe corrected quickly as he noticed Gregory didn’t react to his joke as he had hoped. Though, he thought he did see the flicker of a smile through his straw after all.

Gregory had apparently decided he was finished sipping from his drink like a bird, as Christophe watched him straighten up and turn to him, a gleam of great interest in his eyes. “The one thing one must remember,” he orated, reaching for his wallet, “no matter who one is or what one is working for, one can do anything if one puts one’s mind to it.”

He did not ask Gregory to repeat anything he just spouted off to him, mainly to save him the humility, but also because he knew it wasn’t worth it. Christophe turned to him, putting his elbow on the counter and his head on his palm. “Gregory, if one could only tell you how much you have done for one.” 

Damn his pale complexion. Gregory could feel the heat rising from his cheeks as he watched Taupe flash him a smug yet well meaning smile, grabbing a spare coin from the counter and flicking it into Gregory’s wallet. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from his as he felt glued to him, not even watching as he saw (and felt) Taupe grab his hand from his peripherals and give it a pat. “I would deem it a great privilege to talk with you again.” 

It was almost as if he were watching the events unfold in a separate room as Gregory responded, hardly recognizing his own voice, “Well, all I said-“

If his voice was alien, then Taupe’s was borderline extraterrestrial as he barely even heard his offer. Though, he knew he heard it, loud and clear, as foggy as his mind felt. If he hadn’t, his heart surely wouldn’t be quickening, and he would have been able to possess some form of control over the smile that was forming on his face with a life of its own. “May one call upon you some evening?” 

Christophe almost considered asking the question again, as he got no response from Gregory, just a wide-eyed stare. However, he knew he heard him—his nearly purple cheeks and rather laughable grin served as his indicator. Christophe could practically hear the desperation in Gregory’s voice as he responded finally “Any night this week.”

To his embarrassment, Christophe found Gregory staring down at his hand on top of his, as if to indicate it was alright he let go. Pulling back as nonchalantly as he could, Christophe gave a nod as Gregory excused himself, taking his wallet and heading to the door before hesitating and giving Christophe one last gaze.

Sure enough, Taupe was still observing him as Gregory peeked behind his shoulder. He gave a sheepish grin before hurrying to excuse himself, stepping into some much needed air. He had just been asked out on a date.

Alone once again, Christophe scolded himself as he consumed the rest of his drink. It was so sweet, he marveled at how he could be at its exposure for so long and still have all of his teeth. Though, he surmised, he had been around Gregory for longer, and his teeth were just fine.

 

 

Don’t do that, he noted with a wince.


	14. Chapter 14

Night had fallen, and Christophe was making his way to his hotel room to finally get some quiet. Though the town itself seemed quiet on the outside, the townspeople certainly were anything but. Once you got them going, well, luck be with you. 

Proving his point that quiet never slept, Christophe found the school board standing guard outside of the hotel, looking full of themselves as always.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Christophe bid with a tight lipped smile. He knew that they were waiting for him and him specifically.

The school board, being the polite gentlemen they were, greeted him with a “Sorry, Professor, but we’ve got our orders.” Christophe fought a scowl as he ended up bumping into Tweak, who blocked the entrance of the hotel.

“We’ve all been deputized,” Tweak told him in his annoyingly smug drawl. Christophe couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand any of them, truthfully. Just hearing their voices made him itch.

Holding out shiny brass badges, the school board exchanged proud glances at each other, as if it were the most honorable award they had ever received in their lives. Though, Christophe thought, it was more than likely that it _was_ the only award they had ever earned. The value of the badges was probably not much more than an empty cigarette box. 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” Christophe sighed as he allowed himself to indicate his exasperation. “Well, congratulations. Now. Let me see.” He clapped his hands together as he once again thought on the fly. The school board members were huddling around him, as if they expected him to pull a knife on them at any moment.

“Do you know that every time I try to give you fellows those credentials, you always try to... change the subject somehow.” He watched as they looked at each other with a hint of anxiety. It was pitiful. 

“It is almost like a conspiracy,” he continued, shooting each of them a frown. Each person recoiled slightly as his eyes met theirs, like a dog who knew it was in trouble. Yes, they were nothing more than dogs. 

When to his surprise—or, maybe not—they didn’t argue, Christophe jabbed a thumb to the door behind him. “Now, I will go up into my room and get them right now.”

Delayed reaction, he grumbled to himself as he felt his arm being pulled back by Marsh. “Sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll have to go with you,” he told him blandly and giving himself a nod.

“Oh, yes.” Once again Christophe strategized how to shake them off his trail before giving a snap at his side in triumph. “Well. Let us see if I have my key,” he declared, and he began to pat himself down as each member of the school board stared at him intently. He could feel the density of the atmosphere, but it was mainly as a result of their fear. He knew he had the upper hand.

Christophe shoved his hand in his suit jacket pocket, asking “What is this?” as he pulled out the paper he had received this morning before crumpling it into a ball without a second notice. 

Unfurling the paper, Christophe held it close to him, resting his chin on his chest as he made sure the school board couldn’t see it. They were engaging in a game of grabbing hands, four different hands hovering in front of him. He knew they were waiting to snatch the paper from his fingers. 

The paper read:

 **RIVER CITY HOTEL**  
RIVER CITY

To: Prof. Taupe  
Room No. 205  
Date: July 23, 1912

One week’s rent: $3.50  
OVERDUE!

“Well, what do you know?” He folded it quickly as he could feel the back of his neck itch. Surely enough, when he looked up, the school board members were attempting to crane their necks and get a good look at the notice he held in his hands. 

“A testimonial from the only female bassoon player ever to appear on the Redpath Circuit.” He lowered the notice to his hip, where the mongrels were attempting to get their grubby fingers on it. 

Lifting it up to his chin so as to escape the arms and hands crowding before him, Christophe added with a nod, “Madame Reenyhook.” The school board continued to play grabbing hands, so Christophe once more flicked the notice near his ear, continuing “Ah, that is her stage name, of course. Actually, she is from Moline.” He pointed a finger at McCormick, who looked as though he were about to shove Christophe over just to get a look at the paper. “Lida Rose Quackenbush.”

Marsh was the one to get touchy-feely now, pressing into Christophe’s right shoulder as he tried to point to the paper he was now crumpling back into his pocket. “Couldn’t I just see that?” 

“Oh, you never forget the name Lida Rose,” Christophe told him, giving no indication that he was listening. He dug in his pocket and pulled out his secret weapon. “Just like in the old song.”

He had already raised the pitch pipe to his lips when Tweak countered “None of that, now.” 

Disregarding his protests, Christophe blew into the pitch pipe before starting them off. “Lida Rose, I’m home again, Rose.”

Any indication that they were against the song was lost as Christophe analyzed their faces. Marsh was giving a nod to Kern, while Tweak and McCormick nudged each other in the ribs. Christophe allowed himself to squeeze backwards between Marsh and Tweak as all four of the trained seals bunched together, responding to his call,

“To get the sun back in the sky!”

At last, he was out of their clutches, quite literally. Christophe took a few steps to the side, leaning over the porch fence rail to give one last look. They gave another line of “Lida Rose, I’m home again, Rose, about a thousand kisses shy” as Christophe grinned to himself and rubbed his hands together, running away to enter his hotel room from the back.

If the school board was aware that Taupe had slithered away from them once more, they certainly did not give any indication of it. They gave a “Ding, dong, ding—I can hear the chapel bell chime” as Randy and Richard sat themselves down on the porch steps of the hotel, with Jimbo and Stuart hovering over them, all four of them singing “Ding, dong, ding—at the least suggestion, I’ll pop the question.” 

Jimbo and Stuart eventually sat themselves down as well, and the quartet serenaded the desolate night streets. 

“Lida Rose, I’m home again, Rose,  
Without a sweetheart to my name.  
Lida Rose, how everyone knows,  
That I am hoping you’re the same.”

As if the empty streets before them were filled with excited townspeople listening with bated breath, the men stood up, throwing their arms out in true barbershop quartet fashion.

“So, here is my love song,  
Not fancy or fine.  
Lida Rose, oh, won’t you be mine?  
Lida Rose, oh, Lida Rose, oh,  
Lida Rose.”

Gregory sat with his back against the post supporting his porch as he looked into the night. Normally, such a dark and empty night would have felt lonely and desolate, suffocating. And yet, for whatever reason, he did not feel alone. Perhaps it was because his mother was sewing in the rocking chair behind him. No. He knew, very well, he might add, why he felt the way he did.

“Dream of now,” he sang, “dream of then.” 

Though he didn’t feel as confined as he had previously, as suffocated, as alone, he felt uncertain. It was the uncertainty of uncertainty, he supposed. He did not know why he felt uncertain. He had no reason to. 

No, he scolded himself silently, he had reason to. Just because he could not recognize it did not rule out its existence. However, that was the most agonizing part of all, waiting for what he didn’t know. He despised uncertainty. He wished to be confident and knowing. Not necessarily for the benefit of others, though he did often make a point to come off that way. No, not for the benefit of others. For the benefit of himself. 

“Dream of a love song that might have been,” he continued, utilizing the comfort of singing away his vacillations. “Do I love you? Oh, yes, I love you.”

He couldn’t help but smile as he caroled “And I’ll bravely tell you, but only when we dream again.” At least, he could mark the mystery of why he didn’t feel so alone as solved. 

“Sweet and low,  
Sweet and low.  
How sweet that memory,  
How long ago?  
Forever?  
Oh, yes, forever.  
Will I ever tell you?  
Ah... “

He faltered as he looked down at his lap before resting his head against the porch post, looking into the inky black sky. There was one single star that had beat the rest of the crowd, which was soon to come.

“...no.”

Discontent with the pang of emptiness that foolishly bludgeoned him, Gregory decided to repeat his call, the call for certainty. 

On the porch of the hotel, the school board, quite accomplished with how their voices had developed, decided to give it another, why the hell not, we sound pretty darn good, can’t do it without Jimbo, aw, hell, it’s Richard here who really keeps the balance, now don’t you forget about Stuart, and you, yourself Randy, hell, you’re right, let’s do it again.

Though they did not know it, both groups of voices, Gregory and the school board were connected through the night, separated only by the streets of River City and the needs of each heart. 

“Will you ever stop arguing with yourself?”

Gregory turned to face his mother, who had voiced the exact same thing he had been thinking.

“Will you ever tell him, won’t you ever tell him?” Ms. Thorne continued, not looking at his face. “‘Oh, yes’, ‘Oh, no’? Just open your mouth and let it come out.”

Though the usual density of the atmosphere that presided when he had conversations such as this particular one was not present there tonight, Gregory still found himself fidgeting rather uncomfortable. “Now, mother-“

“Now, nothing. And if he ever calls again, you see him alone. And if you haven’t got the gumption to tell him how you feel-“

“Tell him?” Gregory gasped, appalled. Perhaps his mother didn’t understand him as well as he thought. Couldn’t she see that it would be borderline jackassery to say such a thing forthright the next time they crossed paths? How do you do, Mister Taupe, I am madly in love with you, but I do not possess the balls to confess it and therefore that is why I am telling you on account of my mother’s will? It was absurd.

His mother was unfazed. “There’s nothing wrong with giving a hint.”

Thinking he would hug him on the spot, Gregory breathed a mental sigh of relief as he watched his brother march up the stairs and onto the porch. His mother immediately turned her attention to Scott.

“What’s that you have?” She asked skeptically. Gregory noticed Scott was holding something in his hand, moving the other hand in upward strokes, as if he were sharpening something.

“It’th a genuine Herculeth combinathion pocket knife and tool kit,” Scott rambled, sounding rather excited to show it off. He spoke as if he were the advertiser, rather than the consumer. Gregory couldn’t help but smile (though, in hindsight, he probably should have been more skeptical. His kid brother was wielding a knife.) as he listened to his eager babbles. It was alien, seeing the new life within him, but it was a fantastic thing. He didn’t shy away, he initiated conversations, and he finally seemed to be happy for once.

Scott held out the knife in his hands for his mother and brother to marvel at. “With a tholid thtag handle and thick, thturdy thteel bladeth!”

Gregory watched as his mother gave Scott a concerned look, but he continued on, sounding like a salesman. For some reason, Gregory thought that the manner in which he was speaking in sounded awfully reminiscent to someone he knew, but he could not place who. “One thpear blade, one thmall pen blade, pluth a file and a combinathion tack puller and thcrewdriver.” 

Ms. Thorne took the blade into her own hands, shaking her head. “Where did you pick up that horrible weapon?”

No offense seemed to be taken at the implication of his new “toy” being called horrible by his mother. “It wath a prethent,” he answered, his grin never faltering. “From Taupe.”

Gregory’s heart gave an excited jolt. “Professor Taupe?” He knew there was no other Taupe out there, and yet he still felt the need to ask it anyway, even if just to say his name.

“Uh-huh,” Scott answered as he put his foot on the porch beam behind Gregory’s head. He carefully pulled himself and climbed so that he towered over his brother and mother, hugging the post and looking down at them. “He thayth that if I’m gonna thtick around River Thity, I better learn to whittle and thpit.” He leaned his face closer to Gregory’s, smiling, showing off the apples of his cheeks. “I got the thpitting down pretty good.” 

Gregory could not imagine Taupe to be the kind of man to roam the street, spitting and whittling. Though, he thought as he pondered it over, perhaps he could see the whittling bit—a stretch, yes, but it was there. He smiled to himself as he imagined Taupe running through the streets, leaving a trail of wood shavings and attempting to convince people to buy his carvings and rambling about how it is a once in a life time chance, _madame_ , oh, yes. Now that was some food for thought.

“Scott,” Gregory began, looking up at him slowly. He knew he shouldn’t ask such a question, especially to a kid, much less his own brother. Yet, a burning desire inside him roared, with the satisfaction of an answer serving as the only way to put it out. It wasn’t necessarily wrong, but he still found himself feeling partially guilty as he asked, “What do you and Taupe find to talk about?”

Finding no issue or skepticism with Gregory’s query, Scott answered thoughtfully, “Thometimeth we talk buthineth, and thometimeth jutht plain talk.” 

Sufficient enough, Gregory supposed, looking down at his feet. However, and as he should have expected, Scott wasn’t finished just yet. “He talkth about hith hometown, Gary, Indiana, and he thaid maybe he’ll take me there thomeday.” 

“Well, isn’t that nice!” His mother beamed. Gregory found himself wondering, childishly, whether he too would be invited to go.

A spark lit in Scott’s eyes as he declared, rather proudly, “He taught me a thong about it, with hardly any eth’th in it!”

Without waiting for a gilded invitation stamped with a wax seal, Scott leapt down from the post and began to sing. “Gary, Indiana, Gary, Indiana, Gary, Indiana, let me thay it onthe again.”

Gregory shared a look with his mother before looking back at Scott. The world was his oyster. He didn’t have a hint of humiliation anywhere about him. In fact, the confidence he held seemed to be more than what Gregory himself possessed as of lately. 

“Gary, Indiana, Gary, Indiana, Gary, Indiana, that’th the town that knew me when. If you’d like to have a logical explanathion-“ He gave a particularly spit filled “explanation”, but Gregory watched as Scott appeared to stand up even straighter, as if he took pride in his disadvantages. No, not as if. He did take pride in his disadvantages. Gregory wondered if he himself could teach to do the same. He knew he was being too hard on himself, that he deserved to relax and not be so uptight all of the time. However, he wasn’t particularly sure of what he was anymore. The line between reality and a façade had grown to be very, very fine.

Gregory forced himself to cease his musings and pay attention to his brother, who was looking at him eagerly. “-how I happened upon thith elegant thincopathion. I will thay without a moment of hethitathion, there ith jutht one plathe that can light my fathe.”

Taupe’s influence was evidently much bigger on Scott than Gregory had imagined. He watched with much amusement as Scott pointed a finger to his mother with a scowl, the perfect image of Taupe if he happened to be a lisping 8 year old child serenading his family. 

His mother gave an equally amused “Gary, Indiana”, and Gregory found himself being pointed at next, grinning as he could see Scott picking up on Taupe’s mannerisms clear as day. He too gave a “Gary, Indiana” as Scott looked absolutely overjoyed to have led his own personal choir.

“Not Louithiana, Parith, Franthe, New York, or Rome!” Again, to his merriment, Gregory watched as Scott stuck his hand out and shook his head. Taupe was his role model. “But-“

“Gary, Indiana,”

“Gary, Indiana,”

“Gary, Indiana, my home thweet home!” Scott opted to do a humorous little jig before spreading his arms in grandeur. He knew he was making a spectacle of himself, and he was enjoying it. 

Pulling him into his lap, Gregory gave Scott a playful hug, who was laughing. Looking down at his face, Gregory told himself that there were bigger things to worry about, such as his brother’s happiness and witnessing what was once impossible bloom and grow before his eyes. As long as his brother was happy, he supposed he could be happy, too.

“All right, enough of that,” said his mother, rising from her chair. “Come along, now.” Scott grabbed her hand, stepping out of Gregory’s grip who gave him a mischievous tussling of the hair. “You still have to change for the sociable.”

Escorting Scott inside, Gregory’s mother left him to sit against the porch post, looking once more into the night. He was beginning to feel more confident already.

“Hey, do the Broflovskis live around here somewhere?”

It took a moment to register that the voice was addressing him. In front of his yard and on the street stood a rather portly man holding a suitcase. He had slicked back brown hair that Gregory thought was rather excessive, and that was coming from him, who depended on hair gel to maintain his own mane. The way the businessman spoke was very off putting, as if he were trying to make too much of an effort to sound neighborly. 

“The Broflovski home is on East Elm,” Gregory told him, pointing his arm east. He was attempting to read what was on the man’s suitcase without drawing too much attention to himself. “This is West Elm.”

Apparently, the nice guy demeanor was too taxing for the businessman. The man muttered an audible “Son of a bitch” as he marched back from whence he came, his tone indicating as though it was Gregory’s fault that he had to go back. Though he could not see his suitcase very well, Gregory thought that one of the large, white letters read “CARTMAN”. 

The fellow, “CARTMAN”, Gregory presumed, suddenly came to a halt as he glowered at his window. “Oh, I see you’re a piano teacher here in town,” he observed, regarding the sign that advertised “PIANO GIVEN” displayed in the window corner. Once again, he spoke in his disconcerting, friendly-man voice. Something was awry. “You must know about this fellow Taupe, forming a boys’ band here.” 

Gregory’s heart took a leap. Or, perhaps it stopped. He couldn’t truly tell as he could feel the wind get knocked out of him with just a mere mention of his name. “Yes!” He exclaimed rather excitedly, standing up to approach the man formally. The man had evidently reverted back to his aggravation, a frown plastered upon his face.

“Well, don’t let that worry you any more.”

Gregory paused, placing his palm against the fence post dividing his lawn from the sidewalk. He listened with growing suspicion as the man continued proudly “I’ve got the goods on him, in spades.” He shook a small stack of yellow papers in Gregory’s face with a confident sneer before spitting “That swindling, two-bit thimblerigger!”

He didn’t want to listen to any more of it, but Gregory knew he had to, for Taupe’s safety and perhaps even the safety of River City. Taupe has brought out animation and life in even the most stubborn of people in ways he never thought imaginable. His brother was evidence. 

“That’s why I gotta see Broflovski,” the salesman continued, pulling a gold watch from his vest. “I’m just passing through, though. Number 8 only makes a 15 minute water-stop, and...”

In his eyes was a look Gregory recognized all too well and had seen too many times. The look of hunger and ferocious desire, and the desperation that plead he would do anything to get his hands on what he wanted. Which was, to Gregory’s horror, him. This man, this businessman who had the gall to ask for directions before smearing Taupe’s name and coming on to him as if there was not an eyelash to be batted, as if it was normal.

A train whistle blew in the distance. “I wish it was 20.”

As he always would, Gregory planned to walk away and starve him of the satisfaction of a reaction. Perhaps share a few harsh words with him before storming off.

“Sure could concentrate 5 minutes on you, pretty boy.”

Perhaps a deck in the face. Just one. 

“Who are you?” Gregory asked him tonelessly, fighting to keep the muscles in his face perfectly still. 

“The name’s Eric Cartman,” he answered smugly. “Anvil salesman.”

Like he had been waiting to flaunt his identity, which was likely fraudulent, Cartman allowed the suitcase he held in his piggish hands to fall to the pavement. It made a hollow, heavy _CLANG_ , as if he toted anvils by his side nonchalantly. Gregory cast a curt glance at the suitcase. 

“ERIC CARTMAN  
Midwestern Sales Representative  
GIBRALTAR ANVIL COMPANY”

However, his repulsive flirtations were placed on the back burner as he marched a few steps down the sidewalk, his hands behind his back. “But just now, I’ve got heavier things on my mind,” he chuckled in a sinister, smooth voice. It made Gregory wish to tear his hair out in frustration and repulsion.* “I’ve got to protect the good name of the traveling fraternity from that swindler Taupe.” 

Submitting to his itching combativeness, Gregory marched up behind him. “Mr. Cartman, you’re making a big mistake.”

“Mistake, my old lady’s corset cover,” he spat, sounding rather annoyed at Gregory’s objection. “That fellow has been the raspberry seed stuck in my wisdom tooth just long enough.” Gregory could see that Cartman was restraining himself. To him, referring to Taupe as “fellow” was a compliment and act of graciousness. “He spoiled Illinois for me, but he’s not going to spoil Iowa. What kind of music teacher are you, anyway?” Apparently, Cartman’s next line of attack resorted to demeaning him and stripping his credibility away, all for trying to get a man to think of the consequences of his actions. A man, he figured, who likely cowered at the mere mention of taking accountability for his actions. “He’s no more Professor-“

The phrase “lost filter” was one Gregory had a difficult time believing. Though, yes, sometimes it proved to be rather taxing to maintain ones integrity, he had never been able to understand how one could simply “lose their filter”. In that moment, when he shouted indignantly “I know all about that!”, he knew it. 

Taupe was a fraud, and he knew that. He had known for weeks. He had known since he first laid eyes on him. He had known, and the Indiana State Educational Journal has supported his hypothesis. He knew, very well, that Taupe was not certified to be any sort of professor, and yet, he didn’t mind. He wasn’t outraged, he wasn’t disappointed, he didn’t feel manipulated. He knew that the man was unintentionally filling his promises. In fact, he doubted the man recognized it himself.

However, Cartman did not know that, either. Gregory would have countered “Band leaders are always called professor!” regardless of the intrigued stare he had received in response. He refused to provide Cartman the gratification of agreement. “It is an academic courtesy,” he continued, attempting to maintain the volume in his voice. “He is a fine director-“

Cartman thought otherwise. “Now wait a minute!” He shook his head, and Gregory watched as his face grew darker, hissing in evil satisfaction, “Fine director? Have you heard one note of music from any band?” 

“Well...” Gregory knew he couldn’t get himself out quite as easily this time. “No. But-“

“But nothing, pretty boy.” Gregory desperately pleaded for him to quit calling him that. “He never formed a band in his life.” Cartman pointed a fat finger to his nose. “And you think he ever will? Not on your previous existence.”

Evidently, he was satisfied, as Gregory observed Cartman shuffle back to where his ridiculous suitcase sat on the curb of the street, picking it up with a grunt. A pang of urgency stabbed Gregory as he leaned forward and grabbed Cartman’s arm, who looked at him with thinly veiled disgust disguised as concern.

“If you’ll just listen to me for a minute,” Gregory pleaded, forcing himself to stare into Cartman’s beady eyes. He feared that if he looked at him for too long, the repulsion on his own face would become too evident. He often found himself making faces without meaning to. 

His pleads did the trick, but not in the way he wished. He watched a sneer grow on Cartman’s offensive, disgusting, pudgy face as he began to stroke his chin, like a predator thoughtfully eyeing its prey.

“I’d like to... do more than that if I had the time,” he purred, and Gregory had to shove his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat so as to draw as little attention as he could to the fist he was clenching furiously. “Sure got the inclination.” 

A leech, that was what this man is, Gregory assured himself as took a sharp intake of breath in a desperate attempt to clear his head. A leech who gets off on degrading others through patronization in compensation for his own lack of security. You are a smart man, he reminded himself, you can deal with him. You are no coward. You are capable. Turn the tables. Do not back down.

Once again, the train marked its presence by whistling in the distance. “But I’ve got to get back on that train,” Cartman told him, and his tone sounded strikingly similar to modesty. It was as if he praised himself for boarding the train, as if it took plenty of time and effort that everyone else seemed to lack. ”And I’ve got to leave this dynamite-“ he shook the papers he had balled in his first in front of Gregory, who had is head turned away from him, leaning against the fence. “-with somebody on the way to the depot. Bye, pretty boy. I’ll see you the next time I come through.”

I won’t, Gregory groaned to himself, tipping his head back in annoyance. He knew that he had to stop this oaf from spreading whatever incriminating evidence he kept flaunting around. He allowed the man to take a few bumbling strides away before remarking quickly,

“You’ll never make that train at the depot. You’ll have to catch it at the crossing.” 

Cartman turned to ogle at Gregory with his hungry eyes, and Gregory found himself, cowardly, wishing he hadn’t said anything. No, he knew he had to continue with his plan. He knew that it was foolproof, in the sense that this fool would never see it coming and fall right into his clutches.

“No, sir,” Cartman retorted with a smirk, acknowledging his shameless display of playing coy. “Got to leave word, and I can see you aren’t the one to leave it with.”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Cartman,” Gregory pleaded, snatching his arm once more and attempting to pull him back. Though Gregory was slightly taller than him, he still felt as though he was being towered over. 

With a start, Gregory heard a foreign sound coming from the window of his home. As much as he could spare, he turned his head to find its source. His mother had turned on the gramophone and positioned it right next to the window, giving him a look. It was as though somebody had dumped a bucket of cold water over his head as he felt the freezing entrails of abhorrence deep into his every muscle. He recognized the music playing as Habanera from Carmen. The true name of the aria, “L’amour est un oiseau rebelle”, translated in English to “Love is a rebellious bird.” He made a mental note to scold his mother later on for her asinine games.

No.

He realized that this was the perfect opportunity to kickstart his plan. 

Putting on his best lover boy expression, Gregory told Cartman in a smug, low tone, “You don’t know me very well yet.”

CLANG.

The gargantuan suitcase Cartman was holding fell to the ground as he raised an eyebrow, his shit eating grin growing longer and longer. “Is that an invitation, pretty boy?”

Instinctively, Gregory took a few steps back, maintaining eye contact and keeping his hands on his hips. “No!” He gasped, watching as Cartman took a step closer. 

Reprimanding himself for breaking his façade, Gregory shook his head. “I mean, ah,” he stammered, stiffening his posture and puffing out his chest, “I don’t know _you_.”

“Yeah, I’d need more time anyway,” Cartman groaned, suddenly disinterested in Gregory’s attempts to draw him in. 

“What I mean is,” Gregory said hurriedly as he watched Cartman once again reach for his suitcase, “ah...” Patience is a virtue, he chided to himself as he closed his eyes and put his hand on Cartman’s broad shoulder, who turned a little pink himself. Apparently, he had not been expecting to get as far as he had, looking at Gregory with eyes that seemed startled. “As well as I’d like to.” 

Discomfort making its rounds once again, Gregory pushed Cartman back a few steps, suddenly feeling rather claustrophobic, even though there was a considerable amount of space between them. 

“There’s no trouble there, pretty boy,” Cartman answered with a satisfied grin. The diluted fear lingered in his eyes. 

Engaging in what looked to be some sort of apprehensive tango, Gregory found himself stepping back once again, crooning “I’ve, ah, never met a man who sells... anvils before. It is really, quite...” He stepped to the opposite side of where Cartman was beginning to lean against the face, watching him like a shark. “Different.” 

Throwing up a hand as Gregory once again backed away from him, Cartman was evidently reveling in his new half-hearted compliment. “It takes a real salesman to tell you that,” he smiled in sickening modesty once more. He pointed to his suitcase, “Anvils have a limited appeal, you know.” 

Not much unlike yourself, Gregory groused internally as he sauntered away from Cartman to the beat of the music emitting from the gramophone in his window. He observed as Cartman’s eyes widened, frowning and grumbling loudly “What am I doing!? If I miss that train, I’ll lose my job! I’ve got to leave word about that bastard Taupe!”

“Leave word with me,” Gregory commanded with a stone faced expression. 

Cartman flicked his double chin arrogantly. “Not on your tintype, pretty boy,” he growled, looking at him through squinted eyes. “How do I know you’d deliver these letters?” He flicked them sharply in Gregory’s face. 

All or nothing. 

“Try me,” Gregory demanded with a smirk of his own. And without any further hesitation, he yanked on Cartman’s collar, pulling his pig-like mug close to his. He could see Cartman give a bewildered smirk, as he knew what was coming.

And just like that, Gregory slammed his fist right in between Cartman’s eyes as powerfully as he could. 

Like a cue that his time was over, the train whistle blew once more in the distance as Cartman fell to the ground, covering his eyes and shouting obscenities that sounded like gibberish. Gregory heard the scratch of the record and saw his mother frantically taking the needle off of the record on the gramophone, giving him a bewildered stare. He returned it with a confident smile as he placed his hands behind his back, watching Cartman writhe on the sidewalk and continue to shout and carry on. 

“There’s your train,” he told the hog on the ground bitterly, “now run for it!” He turned away and stormed to his porch as he heard Cartman get up, heaving large gasps of air as he continued to caterwaul. He sounded only mere seconds away from tears.

“WHY, YOU DOUBLE DEALING LITTLE-“ He shouted, and Gregory could hear his angry, loud stomps as he darted after him. “WHO DO YOU THINK YOU’RE PROTECTING!?”

Cartman’s shouts were muffled through the large hand he held over his mouth and nose. His eyes were beginning to bruise, and Gregory thought he could distinguish a trickle of scarlet coming from what showed of his nose behind his hand. “THAT GUY’S GOT SOMEONE IN EVERY COUNTY IN ILLINOIS, AND HE’S TAKING IT AWAY FROM EVERY ONE OF THEM, AND THAT’S A HUNDRED AND _TWO_ COUNTIES!” 

Though Gregory knew he had triumphed, and Cartman’s bloodied face was his evidence, he felt as though he had been the one who received the blow in the face. Surely, that couldn’t be true. Could it?

Standing still, suddenly unable to move, Gregory watched as Cartman took a step closer to him, continuing to shout desperately “NOT COUNTING THE PIANO TEACHERS LIKE YOU HE COZIES UP TO, JUST TO KEEP YOUR MOUTHS SHUT!” In the distance, the sound of voices sang—quite literally—into the air. Gregory couldn’t enjoy the talents of the school board as he listened to Cartman. In fact, now, in that moment, the school board seemed to be a sick reminder of Taupe. He couldn’t get rid of him. He felt as though he were about to lose his dinner and lean over the edge of the porch railing. Was he nothing but a mere toy, a stack of dollar bills, a distraction, a plaything?

“NEITHER ONE OF YOU HAVE HEARD THE LAST OF ME, PRETTY BOY!” 

Dismissing himself, Cartman ambled away furiously, clutching his face, cursing and whimpering to himself. 

Gregory could feel the back of his throat tug, feeling as though he would begin to gag as he watched the school board members make their way past Gregory’s lawn, singing some song about popping the question. The back of his eyes developed quite the bothersome itch, with his chest rather sore. His feelings of pain amplified by about 300% when he heard the school board sing a verse, “-without a sweetheart to my name.”

Stating in the direction of where Cartman had marched off, he didn’t turn his head once as he heard the school board greet him, in melodious harmony, “Good evening, Gregory.” He could see out of his peripherals that they were holding their hats out to him, with pinstriped suits draped over their arms. 

When he did not reply, feeling as though he may lose his stomach if he so much as opened his mouth, the school board continued their song, walking away down the sidewalk.

Good evening indeed.


	15. Chapter 15

Somehow, he had managed to forget that the school board was going to the sociable as well. They moseyed along past him on the sidewalk, still singing the song he had left them off with. Recognizing the potential danger of getting caught, Christophe took a few steps backwards, then leaning against the side of a lamp post, positioning himself just enough to see when the coast was clear without being too obvious. When they continued to march along obliviously, he stepped back onto the sidewalk, giving a successful rub of the hands together.

What he had sought out for was standing on the porch, his hands clasped together at his lap, staring straight ahead, appearing rather rigid. Christophe supposed it was his air of superiority, confidence, or likely some excuse about the horrors of poor posture, but when he saw Gregory give a jolt, turning to him and losing composure, he thought he saw a glimpse of fear in his eyes.

“Gregory!”

The sound of his mother’s voice did little to cure what ailed him as Gregory turned to the door, suddenly eager to avoid Taupe’s presence. It proved to be rather difficult. Aside from the distraction of Taupe being Taupe himself, he was wearing an all white suit that peculiarly fit him quite well in juxtaposition to his dark hair and overall muted appearance (he supposed would be the word. Though, he was anything but). Gregory found himself trying to get a glimpse out of the corner of his eyes, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Cartman’s words lingered in his throat, the bile, horrible words that he did not have the confidence to dispute.

“Gregory, who was that you were talking to?”

Hesitating at the porch steps, Christophe flicked his eyebrows in acknowledgement to Ms. Thorne, who beamed at him. “Why, Professor Taupe!”

He raised his hand in greeting. “Ms. Thorne, good evening to you.” Sparing a nod at Gregory, he added as he invited himself into the porch, “Gregory,” who stared at him blankly. He confessed he found it strange to see Gregory’s face so devoid of emotion. Even when he would play as his uptight, selective hearing self, Christophe had managed to pick something from his demeanor and body language. Now, he just seemed vegetative. 

“You and Gregory come up and sit. I, ah. Have some jelly on the stove,” Ms. Thorne answered warmly. Gregory finally allowed himself to show some emotion, Christophe observed as he watched Gregory turn to her sharply.

Not now, he didn’t want his mother to encourage him. He didn’t know which him he was referring to, himself or Taupe, but he desperately wished to be left alone. “There is no jelly on the stove, mother,” he told her in a strained voice, the feeling of regurgitation remaining in his throat. 

So it seemed Gregory was back to his shrewd and deflective manner. Christophe wondered what had happened; for awhile, he couldn’t get the man to take his eyes off of him, gawking and gasping and staring mercilessly without an ounce of shame. And now, he was even more uninviting than he was when Christophe first bombarded him. 

Yet another challenge, a challenge he would accept quite voluntarily.

Watching his mother leave them be as she answered “Well, I put some on,” knowing full well she didn’t, Gregory watched Taupe look at the door and swipe his thumb over his tongue. Another peculiar habit, he had noticed, typically indicating he was deep in thought, perhaps planning. He had admired Taupe’s subtle astuteness and eagle-eyed awareness, but suddenly it made his stomach churn, feeling rather victimized.

“Well,” Christophe announced as Gregory averted his gaze, “shall we sit, as your mother said?”

Gregory turned to face the street, Taupe’s presence behind him suddenly growing suffocating. He couldn’t refuse him of absolutely everything, he couldn’t shout or accuse him of what Cartman had said, he couldn’t bring it up, but it wouldn’t leave his mind. “Well, really, I-“

Though he was not facing him, he could practically feel the finger being pointed at his neck as he heard Taupe say “You did ask me to call, remember?”, rather condescendingly.

Christophe knew something was up when Gregory responded after too long a pause, “Did I? I didn’t mean it.” Though he knew the comment was intended to be passive aggressive, snarky, deterring, he sounded apprehensive, almost as if he was scared of Christophe. 

“Gregory, I am not suggesting that your invitation inferred anything but academic enlightenment,” he countered, observing as Gregory turned his head slowly. There was something halting him from facing him directly in the eye, and while Christophe normally would have shrugged it off, fine, that was none of his business, only wasted time, he found himself wishing to persist, to dig further, almost as if he were trying to prove himself.

Caving in to the desire to look at Taupe, Gregory turned around to face him. He was looking at him with his expectantly raised eyebrows, tapping his temple with his finger. “The think system,” he explained, Gregory rather fixated on the way his nose wrinkled slightly as he said it. He enjoyed the man’s little quirks. However, he could not find any enjoyment in the reminder that this was the man who hounded more than a hundred others in the same way. Gregory was no more than another casualty.

Somewhere. He was getting somewhere. Not far, no, but Christophe saw that Gregory had begun to regard him intently again, though remaining quite cautious. Christophe placed his hand on the porch post behind Gregory, leaning closer. “I have been by your house a time or two to explain it to you, but there always seemed to be people around.”

He had to turn away as he felt Taupe’s suit jacket brush his own orange suit, averting his gaze more so in embarrassment than heart-wrenching disappointment. He was awfully close to him, too close. He could feel Taupe brush him occasionally as he breathed, and, even though he was shorter than himself, he could faintly feel his breath on the back of his neck, causing the hair at the base of his neck to prickle. Cartman still shouted at him in his mind.

“Ladies mostly, I thought,” Christophe continued as Gregory made no response. He seemed to be tenser.

“Yes,” Gregory answered quietly, his voice refusing to cooperate, “Mrs. Marsh and several of the other ladies.” 

“I am glad.”

Christophe could hear Gregory’s breath hitch, only slightly. He had been caught off guard.

“I would not want anyone beating my time.”

Only casting him a short glance from the corners of his eyes, Gregory swallowed the temptation to force himself to come up with anything, only listening to the sound of crickets and his own heart beat. Though, if Taupe were a sound, he would be absolutely deafening as he stood behind him silently, waiting for an answer. 

The faint sound of fabric moving indicated Taupe had moved. Gregory spared a glance to see him looking up, his mouth slightly agape as he was preparing to say something. 

“‘You wouldn’t?’”

He was talking to himself to substitute Gregory’s lack of response. He couldn’t tell whether it was an act of flirtation or a joke, or perhaps to make himself feel better. Maybe all three.

“‘No sir.’”

Analyzing Gregory, who looked as though it was taking a great amount of strength to maintain his composure, Christophe licked his lips in concentration before pulling back, exhaling through his nose. Though he had to make some sacrifices, which included “wasting” his time for Gregory, even he had a limit to his acting skills. Impatience was beginning to itch under his skin. 

“Well. It is evidently not the convenient evening,” he told Gregory rather gruffly. He paused, watching for Gregory’s reaction. His shoulders rose and fell, and he could see him peeking from the corner of his eye, but he said nothing. Christophe pointed at his neck, taking a step forward. “I will see you later at the sociable.”

He knew that he would never be able to live with himself if he didn’t ask, and his opportunity was currently walking away from him. He ran down the steps after him, declaring fervently “Mister Taupe, is it true that you’ve had a hundred-“

The weight of what he was about to ask crashed down on him all at once as the man turned to look at him over his shoulder, surprised. As always, resorting to look at his hazel eyes as a default, Gregory found the words he had been bursting to say once more lodge in his throat. 

“What I’m... trying to say is...”

He thought of his brother, Scott, and how happy this man before him had made him, how this man in the flashy white suit, with the mangy hair, with the perception of a hawk, with his quirky yet subtle mannerisms, how this man had managed to completely ruin his own life by never once leaving his mind, and how he was not offended or angered about it, but glad, grateful, thankful, wanting to thank this man but unsure how. 

He could hear Taupe approach him as once again Gregory turned his shoulder, concentrating on his feet. “Yes?”

“I was wondering if-“

Face to face. This was its literal definition. Gregory turned to find himself centimeters away from Taupe’s face, who was staring at him seemingly unbothered. However, he knew that was not true, he could see, practically feel the muscles tensing above Taupe’s brow as they were both aware of their unforseen intimacy. Gregory couldn’t back away. He didn’t feel intimidated, but stuck, as if he were a brick of lead. He physically couldn’t move himself away. A voice deep within him, barely a whisper, if even that, told him that he couldn’t move because he didn’t want to move.

“How...” he stammered, swallowing and allowing himself to avert his gaze, leaning back slightly, “...you developed the think system.” 

“The think system?”

In a split-second moment of vulnerability, Christophe could not understand what Gregory was referring to, and he knew that it involved him, otherwise he wouldn’t have said so. He had been rather focused on watching Gregory’s expression, and, truthfully, Gregory himself. It was slightly disorienting as Gregory turned away—his face was still burned into his mind, like blinking after staring into a flash. Then, he recollected himself as he realized he was referring to his method of music teaching.

“Oh, the think system!” Christophe remarked quickly, shaking his head as if prying himself from a trance. He did not like being caught off guard and felt rather uncomfortable. 

Gregory turned around as he began to talk. “Well, it is quite simple, really. It is as simple as...”

He trailed off, and Gregory watched Taupe’s eyes dart around in thought. His defenses were lowered as well, it seemed. Or, perhaps it was Gregory who was perceiving him incorrectly. He couldn’t quite concentrate.

“As whistling,” Christophe nodded after a moment. He found himself to be getting distracted much more easily than he had hoped, and it was making him rather antsy. “Now, no one had to develop any elaborate technique for whistling.” He noticed with a twinge of confusion, perhaps that was what it was, as he noted Gregory was watching his lips, as if he had never heard of the ludicrous, abstract concept of whistling until just now.

Taupe raised a finger to his temple, squinting. “You simply think the tune up here, and it comes out clearly here-“ he gestured to his lips, and Gregory found that he couldn’t say anything. He felt that if he made any sort of movements he would disrupt the air between them, as if he would fracture the atmosphere, as if he would repel Taupe away, who seemed to be getting even closer. 

Taupe demonstrated, as if to clear up any misconceptions or confusions that surrounded the concept of whistling. Gregory recognized the tune that was coming from his lips to be the one Scott had been singing so joyously earlier. Gregory knew it was no accident that they were growing closer together, closing the gap. He felt afraid to breathe, as if he would somehow ruin everything. 

“Why don’t you suppose you try this yourself?” Taupe asked in a low, scratchy, gentle voice, the quietest Gregory had ever heard him. He didn’t know he could possess such gentility. He felt as though his head were about to physically combust. His whole body felt as though it was throbbing, throbbing, throbbing to his heartbeat which pounded so ferociously in his ears. He could feel Taupe put a finger beneath his chin and slowly pull him closer, and he permitted his cheeks to burn and his head to throb and his heart to roar and his breath to hitch and his brain to turn to static. He closed his eyes in resignation—no, he did not feel as though he were resigning or defeated, but permitting himself, allowing himself to cave in, voluntarily, or not, he could not concentrate. He could feel the warmth of Taupe’s body heat radiating right in front of him. He could feel the tickle of Taupe’s breath as he began to whistle once more. He could feel the subtle bump of Taupe’s nose as it tapped his own. 

Taupe must have been quite astonished. Gregory could see the whites of his eyes in the blur that whirled by as he shoved his way past him, horrified at himself. “I will take your word for it,” he gasped breathlessly as he took generous strides across his yard, attempting to scrounge up as much relief that the cool breeze of his movements provided him. Now, he couldn’t turn to look at Taupe, for he dreaded to see his expression. 

Cartman’s words echoed in his mind once more. Perhaps Taupe deserved to feel angry, bewildered after all.

Christophe stumbled slightly, quickly regaining his balance as Gregory pried himself away and rushed away. He bit back a growl, forcing himself to take a breath. Patience, it’s all part of the act. You are getting closer. He slagged on a grin, taking a few steps closer to Gregory. Gregory’s fists twitched at the sound of Christophe’s feet crunching against the grass, which was softened from the moisture of the summer night’s air.

“Why don’t we all sit down?” He suggested, gesturing to the wicker peacock chairs nestled in front of a few carefully sculpted rose bushes. Gregory evidently wished for his yard to be as carefully cultivated as himself.

“Are all music teachers as dense as I am?” Gregory asked Taupe, the burning desire of a contrarian igniting in his chest. When he slipped into one of his bad humors, he felt the need to be arbitrarily combative and argumentative.

Doubt, that was it. Gregory was being held in the suffocating chokehold of doubt, pitying and feeling sorry for himself. Christophe did not know what changed nor what he had said, if it had even been him at all, but he would not be content until he found out. “ _All_ music teachers?” He asked skeptically.

“I daresay you’ve met dozens,” Gregory retorted, shooting a choleric yet poignant look over his shoulder. “Maybe even a hundred.”

“Well,” Christophe began, rather irately, placing his hands on his hips. He was not too fond of Gregory’s implications.

“Are they all as fascinated as I with-“ The burning itch of accusation had begun to boil over as Gregory whirled around to face Taupe, prepared for confrontation. However, when he saw Taupe, who was staring at him incredulously, with his hands on his hips and his eyebrows knit together, Gregory slackened. He was being absurd, stirring up unnecessary conflict that could easily be avoided if he kept his mouth shut. He turned away slowly, continuing in a quiet, defeated voice, “-the think system?”

Thinking of how to entertain Gregory’s game, Christophe told him, rather cautiously, “Well. Some more, and some less. Now, one young man thought up the same system before I got to his town.”

So it was true, he did cozy up to every piano teacher, librarian, whoever to keep their mouths shut. Gregory turned once again to face Taupe in dread. He was doing his thoughtful squinting-and-pointing, arching his eyebrow. “He showed me a few refinements.”

“I see.” 

Gregory’s pity party growing cumbersome, Christophe observed as he took another set of steps forward, like he was engaged in the Indecisive Tango. “Have I said something wrong?” He inquired tonelessly. 

He watched Gregory’s head bob forward and his shoulders hunch, as if he had taken a swig of the most vile of beverages. Christophe heard him say in a pathetic, pinched voice that was not at all Gregory’s, “Please. Do not let me keep you, Professor Taupe. You must have many more important things to do than explain the think system to me.”

“No, I cannot think of a one. Now, come on, let us sit down.” Christophe gently latched onto Gregory’s elbows from behind. He could feel Gregory’s muscles tense from beneath the fabric of his suit and his palms.

“I must be very dull company for a man of your experience,” Gregory lamented. He sounded ill.

With a jolt, Gregory could feel the hairs on his neck stand up as he heard a sound from behind him. It was coming from Taupe, and he realized that he was laughing. Not chuckling or scoffing, but laughing, his bark echoing through the night. Even the crickets seemed to stop. Gregory was quite certain he had heard what sounded like a snort muddled in his cackles. 

Allowing his lips to curl and a hefty laugh to erupt, Christophe recognized he was making a fool of himself. And yet, he could not help it. Gregory was anything but dull company. He was, admittedly, the most intriguing man he had ever met. With his poodle hair, his unequivocal expressions, his ridiculous accent, his posh, annoying air of superiority. Though the man was quite a character, and not always in a positive manner, he was anything but dull. And to hear this man who seemed so confident and certain calling himself dull was absolutely absurd. 

“Now, say, where did you ever get an idea like that?” Taupe asked after recovering, though he said _that_ through the vibrato of a chortle. 

“One hears rumors about traveling salesmen,” Gregory responded stiffly after a pause. He wouldn’t permit himself to enjoy Taupe’s quizzical, subtle, and interesting mannerisms. 

“Pah, Gregory,” Christophe grunted, rather condescendingly, “you must not believe everything you hear.”

So that was why Gregory was dick deep in despair. With a stab of alarm, he recognized the implication of what Gregory had said. He had heard a rumor from someone, somewhere, about himself. It couldn’t have been any of the River City residents, they were all on his side, save for the Broflovskis, of course. Though, Mayor Dickweed and his Chicken Empress had no reason to visit Gregory. Well, truthfully, they had no reason to visit anyone, sticking their snobby authoritarian noses in the business of others. Nevertheless, he racked his brains, trying to think of what it was he heard and who he heard it from.

“Why, after all,” he added on suddenly, unprecedented combativeness digging in his skin, “one even heard rumors about librarians.”

There was no time to think as Gregory turned on Taupe once more. Fury or fright, he was unsure of what was burning in his ears, but he was appalled nonetheless. “I presume you’re referring to Uncle Gary,” he barked, unable to fathom how such a keen man such as Taupe could have bought into the rumors brought on by Mrs. Broflovski and friends. 

Christophe lowered his hand that he had been pointing slowly, his heart taking a swim into a frozen pond. He could not help but feel as though he was being exposed, not for mentioning the rumors, but exposed for his own unawareness to this uncle Gary fellow. “Uncle Gary?” He repeated sharply with a frown.

“Mister Harrison, my father’s best friend,” Gregory retaliated, blinking in disbelief. Taupe truly could not be this transparent. “No matter what _they_ say-“ he gestured vaguely with an upward jerk of the chin, knitting his eyebrows in aggravation, “-he left that library job to me so that my mother, Scott, and I could have some security.” He gave Taupe a heated glare before raising his voice so as to disguise his disappointment as anger. “Surely _you_ don’t believe-“

“No, no, no, no, no, no.” Christophe waved his hands dismissively in front of him with a scowl. He _had_ bought into the Chicken Lady gossip of brazen overtures and lumps of lead for hearts. They had gotten him, somehow. He had been tricked. He supposed it was partially his fault, faltering in his guard with only some persuasion. “Of course not, but that is just what I am saying. Now. Why do you suppose people start those rumors?”

Fire was blazing in Gregory’s eyes as he shook his head. “Narrow mindedness! Jealousy!” He once again took a few steps forward, away from Christophe. His tone was less ferocious as he said exasperatedly, “Jealousy mostly, I guess.”

“Exactly. And jealousy mostly starts rumors about traveling salesmen,” Christophe agreed. 

Gregory turned around. Of course. It was so simple. It was so strikingly obvious. Cartman had started those horrific rumors about Taupe in order to hide his own insecurities and jealousies. He was enraged that Gregory wouldn’t cozy up to him, and certainly decking him in the face was no help. Of course. And here he was, scolding Taupe with a fiery tongue, moping in self-pity, all because he had gotten caught up in a measly rumor. 

Standing silently, unsure of what to say, how to say it, Gregory listened as Taupe came closer to him, standing behind his shoulder. He asked him in a gruff, bitter voice that was agitation veiled as inquisitiveness, “What have you heard?”

Proving his suspicions to be correct, Gregory turned his head to see Taupe glaring at him intensely, as if he were being subject to an interrogation. “Oh. Nothing about you personally,” he stalled, feeling Taupe’s eyes on his every movement, “It’s just... you know.” Another glance. Taupe’s stare seemed to burn hotter and hotter with each passing second. “Generally.” 

He watched as Taupe picked at his baby blue bow tie, his glare morphing from interrogation to thoughtfulness. “Well,” he prodded, “what have you heard generally?”

“Just that...” Once again, Gregory thought of Cartman and how angry he had been. His words were purely out of spite. If Taupe had, in fact, cozied up to all of the piano teachers and librarians across the span of 102 counties, he would not be asking what he had heard. He would dismiss it, just as any logical person would who was attempting to flee from truth. He would not be promoting for Gregory to tell him more.

“But of course!” Christophe listened as Gregory made an audible exhale of relief through his mouth. The fire remained ever so prominent in his eyes, but it was the fire of triumph. “Well, it stands to reason that the disappointment and jealousy can lead to... well, take you, for instance!” 

Christophe was unsure of where he was going with his spiel, and hoped it wouldn’t be too long. It made him antsy, itching to know what he was talking about and what he was “taking” him for. “Your attentions to customers and... well, teachers. Might easily be misconstrued, now, mightn’t they? I mean now honestly, mightn’t they?”

Opening his mouth, words failed Christophe as he gave a quiet “well-“ which was quickly muddled under Gregory’s continued rambling. The question was rhetorical, so it seemed.

“And as you say,” Gregory declared, marching to Christophe’s side, “if a salesman or somebody were jealous, why! They could be downright lies, now, couldn’t they?”

Christophe was lost. Though he was now in his twenties, he felt just as he had as a little boy, beginning to learn English after speaking and hearing French for the first four years of his life. He had no choice but to listen as everyone went about him, faster than him, leaving him in the dust, and there was nothing he could do to catch up, just nod and hope for the best. That feeling of absolute uncertainty, dumbfounded, even, has resurfaced once more as he stared Gregory in the face, who was glaring at him triumphantly. He looked as though he had just won the world’s greatest award.

“What could?” Christophe finally inquired. He would be damned if he didn’t at least attempt an effort in understanding what Gregory was babbling on about.

“Rumors and things!” Evidently, Gregory had decided the questions he asked were no longer rhetorical, as there was a heavy pause.

“Why, of course!” Christophe exclaimed, mimicking the same vivacity and fervor in Gregory’s tone. Satisfied, Gregory gave a curt, confident nod, as if to say good job, you’ve passed the test.

“It just goes to show you should never believe everything you hear! Doesn’t it?” Gregory felt a quick gust of relief as Taupe nodded quickly in agreement, frowning in concentration. “I mean, if you’d just discuss things!” 

His thesis had been stated, as Christophe observed Gregory, who stared at him imploringly. Now it was his turn to wait for some illuminating answer of enlightenment from Christophe. 

“Gregory, I would be delighted to discuss anything in the world with you.” Gregory moved his head back slightly, as if recoiling, but Christophe recognized it was astonishment more so than disgust. “But, couldn’t we do it sitting down? You do sit? Your... your knees bend and all?”

Gregory gave a resigned smile as he watched Taupe flex his knees in demonstration. He had made his point. Taupe was not a cheat. He was a good man. Cartman could be left for the pigs.

“We could sit on the steps, I suppose,” Gregory suggested with the hint of laughter lingering in his voice. 

Unexpectedly, he felt a pat on his shoulder and watched as he was turned around to face Taupe, who was looking at him with his hungry eyes. “We could also sit on a large, hollow log over at the footbridge.”

Footbridge. The word sounded foreign. 

Gregory heard himself refuse the offer breathlessly. “Oh, no. No. I. I couldn’t do that.” Taupe was a very intriguing, fascinating, captivating and peculiarly charming man, but he did not think he was ready to do something as... not provocative, no, the footbridge wasn’t inherently provocative, but he was not ready. He did not know what he was. “I’ve never been to the footbridge with a man in my life.”

“Just to talk,” Christophe reassured him, secretly wanting to scoff at Gregory’s shying away. He did not seem to be one of those who viewed the concept of the footbridge as indecent. As posh and uptight and even snobby as he was, he seemed to be the type who would venture out, perhaps a little trepidatious, or bashful, oh, I couldn’t, well, if you insist. He did not believe that his suggestion of going to the footbridge would evoke such fear.

Gregory eyed Taupe up and down, fighting with himself. It would be rude to turn him down. Again, this was the man who had transformed his little brother, himself. Truthfully, what was stopping him, he did not know. Yet...

“I have to dress for the sociable.”

Change for the sociable, that was quite the excuse, Christophe thought as he chased Gregory with only a couple of generous strides, leaping onto the porch where Gregory was fixing to go inside. As if the flashy orange suit he donned was not suitable and attention grabbing enough.

Christophe grabbed his arm, which Gregory gazed at rather uncomfortably. Retracting his hand, the urge to know what was setting him off so badly beginning to burn in his throat.

“Then meet me there in fifteen minutes,” Taupe ordered. It sounded as if no was not an answer he would even begin to consider. 

Faltering, Gregory stuttered, beginning to breathe heavily, panic rising in his chest, “Oh, no, I-I can’t. Please. Some other time. Maybe tomorrow.” 

His hands, that was what Christophe found himself fixated on. Gregory was flexing his hands and moving them aimlessly, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. He supposed he didn’t, judging by the unadulterated look of pure desperation in his blue eyes. Tears, he seemed to be on the verge of tears.

“Please,” he begged again when Taupe only raised his eyebrows, squinting, eyeing him up and down in analyzation. 

At last, he spoke. Each pause was a moment of torture for Gregory. “Ah. My dear, little librarian.” He shook his head, and Gregory could feel, yet again, his cheeks scorch. Dear, little librarian. The comment could be taken demeaningly, and, in fact, he did find it slightly patronizing. Primarily because of Taupe’s height in comparison to his—he was anything but “little”. And yet, he knew the nickname was just a mere nickname. Like Marian the librarian.

No, he sighed to himself with a mental smile, it was a term of endearment. Even if Taupe had meant nothing of it, _he_ took it as a personal term of endearment. 

“You pile up enough tomorrows, and you find you have collected nothing but a lot of empty yesterdays,” Taupe told him sharply, and the unprecedented gruffness in his voice took Gregory off guard. Gregory could not help but feel as though he was being scolded. Taupe looked serious, startlingly serious, as if he had meant the comment with the most genuine of emotions.

Christophe watched as Gregory leaned back slightly, a very subtle movement, but evident to him, with the slackening of the jaw muscles and lowering of the shoulders. His message had gotten through. It was a message that he had preached to himself for as long as he could remember. Distractions and wasting time were among the peskiest of his pet peeves. He figured Gregory could benefit from his own advice. In fact, he hoped that he would.

A pause. Gregory couldn’t take his eyes off of Taupe, whose anger seemed to dilute into another emotion he could not identify. Concern, perhaps? Disguised as aggression? 

“I do not know about you,” Taupe added, his volume slightly softer, “but I would like to make today worth remembering.” 

That was the ticket. Gregory submitted to the goofiest smile Christophe had ever seen, and he realized that he himself was fighting back the urge to laugh at his ridiculous expression.

“So would I,” He answered in a voice of hushed awe. 

Taupe was moving in slow motion, or so it seemed. Gregory could feel all senses of awareness strip away in an instant. It was merely Taupe and himself, himself and Taupe. Nothing else. No porch they were standing on, no porch post he was leaning against, no crickets giving their trill, no summer air, nothing else, not even his mind. Just himself and Taupe. Taupe tapped his finger on Gregory’s nose, and even in the darkness, Gregory could see a spark in his eyes.

“Footbridge,” he reiterated in a soft growl, “fifteen minutes.”

Gregory’s mind was the consistency of mush. He was conscious enough to know that he was making a fool of himself internally, that all of his defenses were lowered, that he was not thinking, and that was perhaps the most dangerous thing to do of all. However, as he continued to stare at Taupe’s face, who didn’t move a muscle, just continued to squint back at him with the hint of a smirk occasionally twitching at the corners of his lips, Gregory realized that he did not mind not thinking, at least in this moment.

“Fifteen minutes,” he repeated, unsure of whether he had even said it. 

With a wink and another final dismissive flick of his finger, Taupe excused himself and darted off of the porch, skipping all of the steps and resorting to a leap onto the sidewalk, headed onto the street. Gregory watched as he eventually disappeared with his usual quick, nimble sense of urgency, as if walking at a regular pace would burn too much time. 

He smiled naively, childishly, foolishly to himself, his chest replaced with helium, minutes away from bursting open as a result of his drunken ecstasy. He had never felt the weightlessness and sunniness that burned within him, almost painfully, was even humanely possible. But it certainly, indisputably, absolutely was. 

All of the sudden,

“Mother!”

“What!?”

The weight of everything had bludgeoned him at once as he snapped out of his trance, whirling to the door which opened in an instant. Seemingly, his mother must have been eavesdropping.

“I just told the Professor I’d meet him at the footbridge in fifteen minutes,” he stammered breathlessly as his mother hurried over to him. 

Predictably, his mother was unbothered. “It works!”

“What works?” He demanded, practically watching the seconds slip away from him.

“I’ve been using the think system on you from the parlor!”

With that, his mother hurriedly ushered him inside, and he was left to grapple the magnitude of what he had just agreed to himself.


	16. Chapter 16

He had missed his train. He had a black eye. He had a bloody nose. And now, Cartman was absolutely determined to get something out of his ordeal. He strengthened his grip on the credentials balled in his fist. He would be damned and fucked over if he didn’t bring some sort of good to the pissant waterhole he was roaming about.

The sound of music and obnoxious chattering broke his grousing as he snapped his head up to see where he had headed. There was a giant, knobby, wooden sign that read “HARRISON PICNIC PARK”. Inside was a congregation of fancily clad men and women, dresses and suit coats. There were paper lanterns strung throughout the boughs of the looming trees, with various torches ablaze for additional ambience. 

It was the ideal spot for his plan to unfold.

A group of men were bustling and conversing. Cartman noticed that, carefully pinned on their suits, like an advertisement, were shiny brass deputy badges.

“Hey,” he declared, stopping the men in their tracks, “Any of you people Mayor Broflovski?”

Evidently, the consensus was no. Cartman was answered by a series of head turns and confused frowns, as if they didn’t know themselves. Cartman grumbled to himself as they shoved past him, ogling and staring at him up and down. He decided that he would follow them. He piled in with the herd of patrons, all headed to the same destination. 

Everything would work out.

“Hey! Hey!” 

Clyde was standing on the platform where Sheila Broflovski was set to perform. She had frantically hissed at him to make sure that nobody was in her way, it will truly wow you, Mr. Donovan, we do not need any interruptions. It seemed that everyone and their mother was filed onto the stage, shouting and bustling about. Clyde’s voice was lost in the din.

“HEY!” He shouted, dreading Sheila Broflovski’s fire and fury. He knew that the blame would be placed upon him for serving an “incompetent job” of watching the stage.

“HELLO! HEY!” At least Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski, who were standing right by his side, had his attention, sharing a look. “Woah!” The noise, finally, thankfully, died down. Clyde breathed a sigh of relief. 

“You gotta clear this area,” he told the crowd. “Mrs. Broflovski wants to start the entertainment.”

A unanimous groan of unamused teenagers answered in response.

“No, we wanna dance!” It was Stan who chose to speak up and advocate for the teenagers. Clyde was on his side; he didn’t want to clear the area for Sheila, either. Yet he knew he would never hear the end of it if he did not follow her wishes.

Suddenly, he felt his shoulder shake violently. He turned around to find Sheila poking and prodding him, wearing some ridiculous toga adorned with laurel wreaths and grapes and gold braided embroidery. It was absurd. She didn’t say anything physically, but Clyde could feel his skin beginning to melt from the searing, scalding hot flame of her stare.

“Wait until you see some of the new steps Professor Taupe taught us,” Stan told Clyde excitedly, sharing yet another eager look with Kyle, who nodded in agreement.

“Mr. Donovan, my group is ready to perform!” Sheila was growing more heated by the second. Clyde mindlessly pointed to her as an alibi as he turned to look at the complaining crowd.

He felt a hand clap his back and saw Stan placing his arm around his shoulder in a brotherly manner of sorts. He thought for a moment before nodding to Clyde, telling him “Start her off, Clyde.”

Realizing that Sheila could do little harm to him in front of a giant crowd, in front of the sociable, Clyde shrugged. “Okay, what’ll it be?” 

He ignored the audible shriek of “WHAT!” that came from the mouth of Sheila Broflovski as he watched Stan and Kyle whisper something quickly to each other.

Stan pumped his fist in the air and bellowed “THE SHIPOOPI!”

Clyde rolled his eyes in feigned annoyance. The Shipoopi was a song he had made up as a joke years ago, and he had even made a ridiculous little dance to go with it. Unbeknownst to him, it caught on in town rather quickly, and he was being asked to teach it to people (mainly teenagers). He supposed he was the original Professor Taupe. 

The crowd was not going to take “no” as an answer anytime soon as they already hurried into two lines, couples facing each other. Sheila Broflovski heaved an angry, hyperbolic sigh, indicating to Clyde she was not happy. Clyde primarily accepted the request for its raunchy lyrics, and he confessed that he would love to see Sheila frozen in the midst of an eager crowd, appalled, left to glare and sputter and march away.

As he predicted, she stormed away, melting into the crowd. Clyde began to tap his foot, laughing to himself in triumph. God, she was a bitch. 

“Now, woman who’ll kiss on the very first date is usually a hussie,” Clyde sang, listening as the sound of marching feet against the stage platform accompanied him. “And a woman who’ll kiss on a second time out is anything but fussy.”

He turned to face the crowd. “But a woman who’ll wait ‘till the third time around-“ a series of high kicks from various women “-head in the clouds, feet on the ground!” Now a series of jumps. He found it impressive, how far his joke had escalated. A large sum of the dances performed by the crowd were ad-libbed by themselves. “She’s the girl he’s glad he’s found, she’s his Shipoopi.”

Shifting his weight between his feet as he did a mini-grapevine (was that what you called it? He could never recall, though he never bothered to actively learn the names of dance moves), giving a chorus of “Shipoopi, Shipoopi, Shipoopi”s. The men slid from beneath the depths of kicking legs and bustling skirts.

“The girl who’s hard to get.”

Clyde gave another jig, accompanying it with yet another chorus of “Shipoopi, Shipoopi, Shipoopi”s. It was the women’s turn to slide out from beneath the depths of legs and coattails.

“But you can win her yet!”

Placing a hand on top of his hat, Clyde jumped off of the stage and sidled to the surrounding area, where spectators were standing beneath carefully sculpted floral arches, some seated on the occasional bench. 

“Walk her once just to raise the curtain, walk around twice and you’ve made for certain.” 

He prepared to dash back onto the stage, giving a “Once more in the flower garden, she will never get sore if you beg her pardon.” 

There was a chorus of “Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-si-do-si-la-sol-fa-mi-re-do” from the congregation in response.

Clyde ran to the front of the stage, where a kickline was engaging down the center. He noticed three kids watching him from the foot of the platform—Ike Broflovski, Karen McCormick, and Ruby Tucker. Kneeling to their level, he felt like some sort of storyteller, telling children the enthralling wonders of lost virginity.

“Squeeze her once when she isn’t looking, get a squeeze back, that’s fancy cooking.” He took off his hat and handed it to Ike, who gave him a strange look before shrugging and nodding thanks. “Once more for a pepper-upper, she will never get sore on the way to supper.” 

As the group of dancers chanted another “Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-si-do-si-do”, Clyde made his way back to the center of the stage. The crowd was making a cluster around him before a group of men picked up their dance partners and hoisted them above their shoulders. 

“Now, little ole Sal’s a no-gal, anyone can see-“ another group of men followed suit* as Clyde continued, staying where he was, “look at her now: she’s a go-gal who only goes for me.” 

The dancers opted for a glorified dose-do, exchanging partners and maintaining the flow of the circle. 

“Squeeze her once when she isn’t looking, get a squeeze back, that’s fancy cooking. Once more for a pepper-upper, she will never get sore on the way for supper.”

Yet another “Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-si-do-si-do” from the crowd. 

Clyde put one foot in front of the other, mentally laughing at the absurdity of what he was doing, serenading an entire crowd and jigging around like an oaf. Though, he had to remember, he was primarily doing to piss off Sheila, and that within itself constituted the entire dance.

He gave a chorus of “Shipoopi”s, each set earning a reply of “The girl who’s hard to get” and “But you can win her yet” before once more dashing off the stage.

On an unspoken, invisible cue, the congregation unanimously agreed to engage in a spectacular dance break. It consisted mainly of high kicks and jumps, people dissolving into the throngs of other dancers, exchanging partners and kicking with outstretched arms and legs in nearly perfect synchronization. 

As Clyde watched the spectacle, grinning to himself at how surely pissed Sheila must be, he felt his head jolt forward. Behind him was his good friend Bebe Stevens who was smiling at him. Clyde had sworn she was one of Sheila’s herd, though it was mainly from her own mother’s wishes. He didn’t understand it, and Bebe never got involved in the logistics of it, but he shrugged it off. She wasn’t wearing any ridiculous Grecian outfit, just a loud, floral pink dress.

“Wanna dance? You got them started off pretty good,” She asked, clapping his shoulder.

“You think? Anything to stall Broflovski.” He shrugged. “What the hell?”

Without any further hesitation, Bebe grabbed Clyde’s hand and dragged him stumbling along. He always underestimated Bebe’s strength, the girl seemed to be even stronger than he was. 

Together, both of them began a ridiculous routine of awkward marching, mainly discombobulated because of the way they kept laughing and attempting to out-do each other. Clyde grabbed Bebe from behind and gave her a lift, who laughed and called him an asshole, quiet enough so that the rest of the crowd wouldn’t hear, but loud enough for Clyde to snicker in return. 

Clyde put Bebe down, who in return snagged him in a heartbeat and lifted him without indication of   
any issue. Clyde, knowing he should have expected it, nevertheless kicked his legs and gave a quiet “Woah, dude, shit!” 

In dismissal, indicating that they were finished, Bebe put him down and gave him a playful shove, which he returned with a jab of the elbow. 

It was Stan who received the torch. He led a group of men behind him: Craig Tucker, Bradley Biggle, Token Black, and another man who’s name Clyde had difficulty remembering, Thomas, maybe? Stan was nimble on his feet, surprisingly enough. He executed a few rather entertaining pirouettes, something Clyde never thought he would see Stan do. 

Leading the group of men away in a series of marches, Stan snagged Kyle from the sidelines, dragging him by his side. Together they engaged in a dance number of their own, both kicking their way to the front of the stage, laughing audibly. They rearranged themselves so that Kyle was in front of Stan, each impressively kicking their heels to the opposite side: Kyle to the right, Stan, the left.

They took turns alternating kicks until meeting each other and giving a ridiculous bow. Kyle grabbed Stan’s hand, putting it on his waist, and together they pranced around the stage, taking turns and dipping each other energetically.

With an impatient flick of his pocket watch, Christophe groaned to himself as he checked the time. The Roman numerals told him the time was 8:03. He had no time to waste. He had intended to go to the footbridge at around 8, but he knew Gregory would be attending the sociable with his family, and he would have to stall their venture. He was unsure of when the train was leaving, but he knew that sometime tonight, he would be leaving Gregory behind to deal with the podunk town of River City. He figured the train would leave anytime within the current hour, 8:45 at the latest. 

He could make it work, that was his specialty, dealing with his resources, but what irked him most of all was that he could not find Gregory anywhere within the crowd. Knowing him, he probably ran out of hair gel and was having a crisis, frantically attempting to maintain his dapper appearance.

After a series of twirls, Stan and Kyle slid past each other with enormous grins. They joined hands and melted into the crowd. The crowd entangled hands with their partners, and the circle of dancers began to move once more. 

“Hey, Professor!”

Christophe heard Stan yell within the crowd. He craned his neck over the faces looking at him and found Stan waving him down, grinning. What caught his eye the most, however, was the unmistakable head of blonde curls behind him.

“Show us some new steps!”

Gregory watched as Taupe squeezed his way out from beneath the crowd. He felt sorely for not recognizing him sooner, but he figured Taupe would pay no mind.   
Taupe grabbed the first person he came in eye contact with, Heidi Turner, Gregory recognized. Taupe grabbed her hand and waist rather quickly, each of his movements like a snap. 

He marched her around without batting an eye, or even moving a facial muscle. Gregory saw him nod before he approached Red Tucker this time, marching her around in the same expressionless manner with the same nod of dismissal.

“Oh!”

And now, to his verbal surprise, Gregory found himself being pulled by Taupe, who clamped his hand on his waist and intertwined their fingers together with his spare hand. He continued his stone faced expression with the usual default scowl, but Gregory knew it was from concentration. Taupe spared a moment to lift his chin up, indicating the rest of the eager crowd who was watching them with wide eyes and bated breath. He flicked his eyebrows and rolled his eyes, and Gregory found himself laughing as he marched in beat with him, who pushed him forward. 

Evidently, and though he had showcased his skills with his grandeur with the Great Library Dance of 1912, Taupe was not as confident in his dance skills as he came off. He made no flubs, but he seemed to be focusing rather strenuously, looking down at his feet and at Gregory intensely before scoffing and unfurling a crooked grin. Gregory tightened his grip on Taupe’s shoulder for support, albeit playfully, and he once again rolled his eyes in feigned irritation.

Concentrating on not busting his ass and making a complete jester out of himself was distracting enough. Gregory was looking down at him with twinkling eyes and a poorly stifled laugh, and Christophe had to avert his own gaze to avoid from tripping. He maneuvered his legs to walk behind one another in a sideways motion, and Gregory picked up, instead opting to do some sort of fancy, Gregory-like shuffle. He was quite good on his feet. 

It was Gregory who was slightly leading Taupe now, pulling him in a circular motion as they shuffled together, Taupe momentarily allowing himself to gaze at Gregory approvingly, impressed. 

They made their way to the front of the stage, all eyes on them. Gregory let his breath escape him as Taupe pulled him to his chest, muttering inaudibly to himself. Taupe pointed his left leg behind him, dragging Gregory with him, prompting him to place his right foot in front of him. Perhaps it was on account of his height advantage, but Gregory realized the side of his chin was on Taupe’s cheek. However, he could see that even he was grinning.

Next, Gregory brought his right leg back as Taupe shifted his left leg in front of him. Together, holding hands, both of them alternated which way their legs were pointed, performing a peculiar but admittedly enjoyable little dance. Neither of them faltered, not even with the pressure of the crowd watching their every move. They performed their skit for a moment longer until Taupe ushered Gregory back into the crowd, not once letting go of his grip.

Taupe took the lead and continued his grapevine off of the stage. Gregory continued his own shuffle, following. A head turn to the left revealed Stan and Kyle were following behind, mimicking their dance. Kyle gave a smile to the both of them, Stan, a grin at Taupe and a mere nod to Gregory. Gregory realized that there was another pair behind them, and a pair after that. The entire crowd was following in their footsteps. 

Scuffling along, Christophe led Gregory underneath a canopy of trees, down a dirt path leading off the stage and to a secluded entryway at the gate of the park. Gregory seemed quite full of himself, glancing at Christophe, his feet, and his surroundings before reverting back to Christophe, as if he couldn’t believe that he was right in front of him, leading him in dance, leading an entire crowd. He supposed his surprise was justified: he couldn’t quite believe it himself.

Giving one last step, Christophe motioned with his head to Stan, whose eyes lit up and nodded. He began to usher the rest of the crowd back the way they came, no one breaking a step. Christophe and Gregory now brought up the rear, Gregory continuing to gape in poorly concealed awe. 

They filtered their way back onto the stage, where everyone was arranging into rows. Taupe ushered Gregory and himself to the front, and Gregory gave a gasp as he felt his stomach drop and his body rise.

Taupe had lifted him into the air, following the moves of the other couples. Gregory, normally not one for being swept off of his feet, especially without his knowing, found himself once again laughing into the night sky above him. He felt practically weightless, reveling in the cool breeze that ruffled his hair as he moved, kicking his legs. He was certain he heard Taupe mumble a “That’s it, you have it” beneath him. 

Adrenaline rushing through his veins, when Gregory was placed on the ground he eagerly grabbed Taupe’s hands, who seemed caught off guard by Gregory’s vivacity. It was Gregory who initiated the previous step-hop routine Taupe had started earlier, and, once again, the entire congregation followed.

He had to say, Christophe was not expecting Gregory to lead him as he did. He was grinning ear to ear, appearing winded from excitement. Christophe followed his moves until eventually breaking and letting go. Gregory continued to ogle at him in appreciation.

The crowd, the ducklings they were, followed, and everyone congregated into lines. 

“Shipoopi, Shipoopi, Shipoopi! The girl who’s hard to get.”

Christophe watched as Gregory and half of the group gave an impressively nimble kick. He noticed Stan and Clyde move next to him as he weaseled himself and Gregory to the middle. Stan was paired with Kyle, and Clyde was paired with a rather bubbly blonde who he came to recognize as the pianola girl from before. 

“You can win her yet!”

Christophe turned Gregory around, holding him in his grip. He could not hear what he was babbling about over the din of the crowd singing and chanting, but he was pretty sure he heard a “very skilled” and “Professor” muddled in the noise. 

Everyone gave a last “Shipoopi!” which hung in the air. Christophe found himself kneeling with his arm outstretched, looking at Clyde who playfully nudged him in his chest, hand Stan who gave him a thumbs up.

Gregory gave Taupe a smile, who returned it with an interested raise of the eyebrows, lifting himself up from the ground. He found that he was being ushered away, Christophe latching onto his arm and pushing him forward rather quickly. He appeared to be in a rush.

“Professor Taupe, I-“

“Now, this is no place to talk,” he grunted, shaking his head. Gregory wondered what had changed so drastically. There was an objective on his mind.

Taupe gave him a condescending look. “You are not going to back down?” Though his intonation rose in pitch at the end, Gregory knew the question was purely rhetorical.

“Oh, no!” Gregory shook his head to Christophe, sounding rather breathless, exhilarated. “No, I’ll come! But—well, I promised mother and Scott to have a plate of cream with them.” Gregory stopped, patting Christophe’s hand excitedly. “You go along. I will meet you there.”

With a bit of a deflated nod, Taupe pointed his finger in Gregory’s face one more.

“Fifteen minutes.”

And, once more, Gregory found himself frozen, as if in some sort of hypnosis engaged by the cue word of “fifteen minutes” and a finger point. Nevertheless, he managed to nod, shaking off his spontaneous sluggishness.

“Fifteen minutes,” he repeated, questioning why he always seemed to freeze up as he did.

Taupe gave another quick wink, his finger lingering a moment longer before rushing off with his usual sense of urgency, leaving Gregory to watch from afar.

Fifteen minutes.

“And now, we arrive at the high watermark of the evening’s festivities!”

The mass congregated around Gerald Broflovski, who was standing on the stage, aimlessly waving his arms to capture his audience’s attention. He donned a ridiculous black suit, adorned with a matching top hat and white boutonnière to boot. 

“The River City ladies’ eurythmic dance group, under the leadership of my wife!” Gerald was speaking at ample volume, even though the crowd had quieted down considerably. He paused, and hesitantly the crowd gave a reluctant round of applause. Sheila, with her group of equally absurdly dressed women, all donning the same ridiculous togas and laurel wreaths, beamed proudly.

“-Will give their interpretation of... of...” Gerald faltered and frantically glanced down at the slip of paper he was holding in his hands. 

Deciding it was useless, he turned to look at his wife, who was peering from underneath a floral arch at the back of the stage. “Grecian urns!” She hissed, glowering at him.

Gerald nodded. “Yes. Grecian urns.” As he began to nod and excuse himself, a frantic hissing snagged his ear.

Within the throngs of the crowd was Constable Mackey, who was furiously motioning for him to come over with his club. Gerald, albeit slightly aggravated, ambled over to his side, where Mackey was pointing to a man within the crowd.

He was pointing to a larger gentleman in a brown bowler cap and a red velvet suit. He had rosy cheeks and appeared to be pouting. Gerald could not distinguish whether or not the pout was natural. 

Mackey shoved Gerald in front of him, and together they hustled over to the man. He was holding a stack of papers, and he nodded at Gerald and Mackey before leading them away, out of earshot from the piano music that indicated the start of the Grecian urns skit. Gerald gave one last glance at his wife and her ladies, who were positioning themselves on the stage excitedly.

“One Grecian urn!” Sheila declared, commencing her act.

***

Evidently, Christophe was not the only one with plans to visit the footbridge in mind. Groups of teenagers are prancing about, chasing each other and doing only who knows what. The footbridge was relatively secluded: one had to take the dirt path to find it, nestled within overhanging trees of willows and various shrubs. The footbridge itself was rather small, just a wooden, spindly little thing connecting one patch of land to the other from across a small creek.

He made his way onto the bridge, conducting a quick survey of his surroundings. As he supposed he should have expected, Gregory was nowhere to be in sight. His fifteen minutes had not gone up yet, it was still only 8:18, but the thought of the train departing the station rather soon kept nagging at the back of his mind. He knew it had to be leaving soon. 

As he always did when he felt antsy, Christophe searched for something to fidget with and keep his hands busy. The tree right within his reach from the footbridge caught his eye first, and he snapped a twig off of one of the branches mindlessly. Impatiently, he found himself actually wishing to search for a distraction. Where in the hell was the man? Surely he did not run home to tidy up his appearance?

Christophe crossed to the other side of the bridge and leaned over to look into the black water that reflected the night sky. Instead of seeing his face, however, he took a step back as he saw what was a band, a boys band, a boys marching band, reflected in the water.

The apparition was clear as day. He could see the red uniforms, the brass instruments, the stovepipe hats. Even the twig in his own hand seemed to be reminiscent of a conductor’s wand. With an apprehensive glance to make sure no one was nearby, Christophe rapped the twig against the wooden railing of the bridge before hoisting his arms up and pantomiming a conductor.

Under different circumstances, he would have scoffed at himself, perhaps even sought out medical attention for making the active choice to do such a childish thing, pretending to be a conductor to a mirage of a band. And yet, as he waved his arm, as immature and childish as it was, he could hear the smooth, connected melody of a chorus of brass, performing some sort of melody. It sounded similar to the song he had sang about the 76 trombones over at the gymnasium, but, at the same time, had a different, softer approach to it. It sounded muffled, as if the boy’s band he was seeing was submerged beneath the depths of the water, serenading a muted, beautiful, and, quite frankly, melancholy melody.

He paused. Christophe, he spat to himself, angry, embarrassed. This is kid’s stuff. You are making a buffoon of yourself. He snapped the twig in half and threw it into the water, the ripples melting away his apparition. 

Gregory noticed Taupe standing on the bridge, tossing what appeared to be a stick into the creek. He had a perplexed look upon his face.

The sound of movement distracted Christophe as he looked up from the water. Gregory was standing on the dirt path, hesitating, as if he was intruding. When he saw Christophe’s gaze he hurried towards him with an apologetic smile.

“Gregory. You are late”

Jogging to the bridge, Gregory was unsure of what Taupe meant. “You said fifteen minutes,” he told him. He was not one, typically, to be late. In fact, he always made a point to leave obnoxiously early. There was no such thing as being too early.

Taupe cocked an eyebrow at him. “I do not mean that kind of late,” he answered, leaving Gregory to ponder just what he was getting at. “I meant, ah.” He paused, looking Gregory up and down, squinting. “Well,” he cocked his head to the side, “I would say about... 25 years late.”

It was amazing that he was able to pinpoint his exact age so accurately with only a moments analyzation. 

“It took you all this time to get to the footbridge with a fellow,” he continued, gesturing to where they were standing. 

“Well, if you want to know the truth,” Gregory chuckled quietly, draping his hands over the railing of the wooden bridge, feeling the bumps and groves naturally etched into the bark. “It was almost longer.”

“Oh?” Taupe sounded intrigued as he leaned closer to Gregory, watching as he stared into the creek.

“Halfway here, I nearly turned back. I suppose I’m not the first person to discover one doesn’t think too clearly when under the spell of your salesmanship.” Saying it out loud now made Gregory wince. He was grateful he had carried on nonetheless, standing here now on the footbridge with Taupe by his shoulder. Yet, the very thought of weaseling out at last second made him feel ill. It was horribly insensitive.

Christophe felt himself swallow as he stared at Gregory, looking down, embarrassed and apprehensive. “Now, Gregory,” he told him in a slightly irritated intonation, “you surely do not think I have been trying to sell you anything.”

Gregory turned, and it was then when Christophe realized he had subconsciously placed his hand on Gregory’s shoulder. “Oh, no!” Gregory gasped defensively, staring at him with a look of such pure honesty it nearly knocked the wind out of him. Christophe recoiled his grip from Gregory’s shoulder. “You’ve given me something. That’s why I had to come.”

Gregory could see the whites of Taupe’s eyes as he knit his eyebrows into a frown, fidgeting with the collar of his suit jacket. 

“I do not recall giving you anything,” he stuttered after a moment. Gregory smiled at how genuine his voice sounded.

“Oh, yes. Something beautiful. That’s why I came. And I am so glad.” Taupe glanced apprehensively at Gregory’s hand, which had found its way onto his arm. “Oh, please do not be afraid that I expect too much more,” Gregory added, removing his grip. “One cannot expect a traveling salesman to stay put. I know there have been many ports of call, and there will be many more. Still, I can be grateful for what you’ve left behind—for me.” 

Christophe felt stifled and claustrophobic as he pulled on his collar, unsure of what exactly to say. “Well Gregory-“ 

Taupe’s eyes widened as Gregory placed a hand gingerly over his mouth. 

Afraid to move, as if he would disrupt the flow of Gregory, (whatever that was), Christophe found himself being serenaded by the man in front of him. 

“There were bells on the hill  
But I never heard them ringing  
No, I never heard them at all  
‘Till there was you.”

Gregory observed as Taupe shifted, dropping his chin for a moment before regaining his gaze. Yes, he supposed it was rather strange to be listening to a man burst into spontaneous song, especially when one does not expect such to occur. However, he felt that it was the right thing to do, using song as his medium to convey the words he had confined for too long. 

“There were birds in the sky  
But I never saw them winging  
No, I never saw them at all  
‘Till there was you.”

Christophe stood like an aimless animal, observing Gregory as he paced around from each side of the footbridge. He decided to take a few steps of his own to where he was standing, watching him with what seemed to be a permanent smile.

“And there was music.”

Now, Gregory brushed past Christophe, making his way to the opposite side of the bridge. Christophe was left to ponder his games as he continued to listen.

“And there were wonderful roses  
They tell me  
In sweet fragrant meadows of dawn, and dew.”

The manner in which Gregory turned to look at him made Christophe’s heart pang, startled. There was pure adoration in his eyes.

“There was love all around  
But I never heard it singing  
No, I never heard it at all  
‘Till there was you.”

Christophe’s heart felt heavy. To his confusion, or, aggravation perhaps, he could not identify what he was feeling. His chest tugged, refusing to slacken the vice on his heart, was that it, he supposed so. Whatever it was, it hurt, it pained him, not in a painful manner, not in a melancholic manner, but, rather, in an agonizing squeeze. He felt captured, entangled, behind. 

The squeeze of his heart prompted him to take a few steps towards Gregory, who met his pace, both of them stopping at the middle of the footbridge. With not a second thought (or perhaps a thought at all), Christophe reached out with his left arm and threw his hand over Gregory’s shoulder, pressing him against his chest.

To his undisclosed euphoria, Gregory watched as Taupe draped an arm over his shoulder and pulled him in, and through his expressionless stare, Gregory could see the caution and doubt in his eyes, uncertain of himself. Gregory comforted him by wrapping his arms around Taupe’s neck. He could feel some of the stiffness in Taupe’s shoulders soften, and a hesitant hand latch onto his waist.

Allowing his uncertainty to melt away was a chore. He had no reason to feel culpable. He had no reason to be ashamed. It was alright, he told himself. An occasional distraction is alright. It’s alright. It’s alright. It’s alright. The mantra he chanted to himself mentally did not seem to work as he thought of how he would be leaving town, leaving Gregory, head over heels Gregory, confident, tactical, intelligent, orderly Gregory, leaving his pathetic little brother, his mother, Stan Marsh, Kyle Broflovski, the town, the entire town. His guilt flared up once again, and no relief did he receive when he closed his eyes with a silent sigh, resting his cheek on Gregory’s, which was warm. He was blushing. 

And he supposed Gregory was as well.

Gregory felt Taupe move away slowly, and he saw that he was staring at him. However, the usual analyzation that constantly veiled his eyes, the typical look of thinking, gears turning, observation; it was not to be found. Instead, it was emotion. He could not identity it: vacillation was the best he could come up with, but he swore he could see a small twinge of torment lurking in his captivating hazel eyes. Gregory returned his gaze with as much compassion as he could muster, and Taupe closed his eyes, resigning, surrendering to himself.

He surrendered, too. Gregory realized efforts to calm his racing heart were futile. He was unsure of who initiated it, both of them, perhaps, but he tilted his head and leaned forward until, at long last, too long, finally, they captured each other in a kiss. 

He wanted to laugh into Taupe’s strong lips. His head was filled with helium. Every heart beat sent a jolt through his body, throbbing in time with the heart that was screaming at him, bursting through his chest. He did not know whose heart beat he was feeling on his chest, his own or Taupe’s, whose grip had strengthened on his shoulder and waist, as if Gregory would writhe away from his grip at any second. Once again, Gregory reassured him by strengthening his own grip around Taupe’s shoulders.

It was excruciatingly challenging to subdue his thoughts, but Christophe forced himself to surrender, to submit, to silence himself, and to listen to the meager, pathetic whisper in the depths of his furiously active mind that reassured him it was no crime to give in. He was the one who broke the kiss, pulling away, breathless. He couldn’t recall whether or not he had even been breathing through the whole ordeal. He had instinctively held his breath. 

“There was love all around  
But I never heard it singing  
No, I never heard it at all  
‘Till there was you.”

Taupe was watching Gregory’s every move, biting his lip. He hadn’t even blinked once. Every time Gregory’s face moved, Taupe’s moved, every time his eyes moved, Taupe’s moved. 

The next kiss, Gregory identified Taupe as the initiator. He tightened his grip on his waist, and Gregory couldn’t help but think how far he had come and how, in this moment, he could label it as his proudest accomplishment.

Once again it was Taupe who broke away, slowly. Gregory watched as he darted his eyes to his brow, almost as if he had forgotten something. His lips were tight and he watched his nostrils flare for an instant. Gregory knew the feeling all too well; he appeared to be fighting with himself.

“Gregory,” he said in a husky voice after a prolonged pause, as if his affections had taken a physical toll. “There are a lot of things that you do not know about me.” 

“I’m not asking...” Gregory trailed off as he watched Taupe turn around suddenly, alarmed. He was looking over his shoulder, and Gregory expected an outside force had caught his attention, yet he still couldn’t shake the thought that somehow he was responsible.

Breaking his attention from Gregory, Christophe felt a sharp pang sting his shoulder, accompanied by the sound of a clatter against the wood of the footbridge. He turned to look down at the rock that had just been hurled at him, and heard a faint rustling sound. A nearby bush was shuffling, and Christophe realized there was a person inside it. Two, large, calf brown eyes were ogling at him with raised eyebrows.

“Pardon me,” Christophe told Gregory as politely as he could, patting Gregory’s hand after a prolonged pause. “I am expecting a telegram from... Hugh Jazz. This... could be it.”

Hurriedly, Taupe streaked away and dropped Gregory’s grip, and he was left to prop his elbows on the splintery wood of the footbridge.

Clyde was staring at Christophe, who ran to meet him, looking rather red faced. He had seen him flushed from the occasional outburst, but he knew that wasn’t the cause. The man was a mess. 

“Hey, who’s the salesman around here?” He asked, chuckling to himself. “Looks like he’s selling and you’re buying.”

“I told you, I had to keep him off balance tonight!” Christophe snarled at him in a hushed tone. Clyde took a step back in the bushes, causing more leaves to rustle. Christophe angrily thrust himself on top of the leaves to pacify their sound, glancing quickly back at Gregory, who was waiting patiently at the bridge.

“Yeah, he’s so off balance now you can’t tell him from a catboat in a hurricane,” Clyde mused. Little did Christophe know he was mainly referring to him. He seemed to be distant and discombobulated, the fiery look in his eyes unfocused. He lacked structure. He wasn’t at all the Christophe he knew.

However, he gave a nod. “I have got to keep him that way until those uniforms arrive,” he hissed, sparing another glance back to the footbridge. 

“They’re here and the kids are in them.”

Under different circumstances, Clyde would have laughed at the way Christophe’s eyes dilated as he snapped back to reality, staring at him. It seemed as though he didn’t expect to break up with his new lover so soon. Parting is such sweet sorrow, Clyde thought sardonically to himself. 

“Stan passed out uniforms and-“ Clyde fished his hand through the opening in the bush he was holding open, and passed Christophe a stack of money, who eyed it greedily. “-collected most of the money.” He watched Christophe shove the stack carelessly in his suit pocket as he continued, “Now he’s trying to keep the kids together. Pretending there’s a band practice down at the lumberyard.” 

Good kid, Christophe told himself as he gave his new lump sum a pat of confirmation, as if he had forgotten its presence in his jacket. “What time does the freight train go?”

Hesitating in fear of Christophe’s reaction, Clyde said after a moment, “9:40, in front of the junction.”

A bucket of scalding oil coated his insides as Christophe froze. He had too much time to spare. 

Clyde watched as Christophe predictably looked enraged and shocked, snapping his head over his shoulder and giving a strangled “wha-!” before whirling back to Clyde. “It is not even 8:30 yet!”

He had turned to leave, but the sound of Christophe’s hiss stopped Clyde in his tracks. He turned around to face a fully conscious Christophe, his eyebrows knit together and his eyes ablaze, with an incredulous scowl stretched on his lips. Knowing he would find some way to blame the concept and functions of time on him, Clyde tried to scrounge up his best pissed face. “Listen, Chris! You better cheese it now while you can!”

“Now listen Buster Brown,” Christophe spat, “I came up through the ranks on this skirmish, and I am not resigning without my commission!” 

That was all he had to say. Clyde received the typical analyzation process from Christophe, who tutted under his breath and placed his palm on Clyde’s chest, pushing him back gently. “Now, go on. Beat it.” 

Gregory was standing at the bridge when Christophe came jaunting back. He appeared to be deep in thought. He supposed, knowing Gregory, that he might have taken the notion as rude or offensive, leaving him to his thoughts. Though, the man was so clearly head over heels for him, cheeks ablaze and sparkling eyes and permanent smiles. Nevertheless, disregarding what Gregory was thinking, Christophe marched over to him and held out his arms apologetically.

“Never a peaceful moment in the music business,” Taupe groused, and Gregory felt him place his arms around his back loosely. “Now. Where were we?”

Whatever the reason was that constituted Taupe to hide in the bushes for a moment, Gregory forgave him as he placed his hands on the back of his shoulders. “You were going to tell me what I do not know about you,” Gregory answered in a voice that came out too quiet and smooth for his liking. Yet, considering he had just kissed the man twice and outwardly confessed his repressed affections, he supposed there was not much left to be embarrassed about.

Taupe gave a thoughtful lick of the lips, looking up at his brow before staring at Gregory with hooded eyelids and a sleazy grin on his face. “Yeah,” He crooned in a scratchy sigh. “But, we do not have to go into that right now, do we?” 

He had maintained his grin, but Gregory noticed his brow twitch as he said it.

Gregory was all smiley again, staring at Christophe with the same adoring eyes that hammered dully upon his heart. “Of course not,” Gregory answered, and Christophe felt him slowly ease his way from his arms, turning to face the creek. “We never have to go into that, Taupe.”

Something about his town struck a chord with Christophe. It sounded as if he was playing a game, a game of “I Know Something You Don’t.” 

“Monsieur librarian, you are a gentleman from the ground up,” Christophe told him appreciatively. He tried to stifle the thoughts of Gregory toying with him. Hypocritical, perhaps, considering his status of a con man and all and living the past four weeks in a charade, but something was nagging at his chest, a nagging suspicion he could not identify. 

Gregory tilted his head back, drumming his fingers upon the wood railing. “The librarian hasn’t felt much like doing research, lately.” 

Christophe did not like the feeling in his chest one bit. He gripped the railing with his right hand, forcing himself to keep a straight face. Something didn’t feel right at all.

“But, he did plenty of it when you first came here.” Christophe knew he was messing with him. The way he lifted his chin and puffed out his chest and looked at him with an impish glint in his eye; he knew that Gregory knew something. He didn’t know whether Gregory was attempting to impress him, perhaps egg him on, but he despised it. Mainly because he knew he could not afford to break his character. 

“Oh?” Taupe was giving him a forced smile, but immediately his face hardened. “About what?” His tone was sharper and sounded slightly nervous.

Gregory gave him a tight lipped smile and raised his eyebrows in Taupe-like manner. “Oh, about. Professor Taupe. Gary Conservatory of music. Gold medal class of Aude ‘05.”

Christophe did not say anything as he observed Gregory playfully strut around the footbridge, running his fingers along the wood and leaning up against the side and placing his hand on the posts. It was like a tease.

Evidently, Taupe was not going to say anything. He continued to stare at Gregory tensely.

“Taupe,” Gregory chided in the manner of a mother scolding her child, “there wasn’t any Gary Conservatory in Aude ‘05!”

Ah, shit.

Christophe disguised his frown of shock and frustration to a frown of oblivion and objection. “Well, there most certainly-“

“Because the town wasn’t even built until Aude ‘06!” 

Begrudgingly, Christophe accepted silent defeat. Gregory knew his facts. He knew them well. They could spend hours bickering back and forth on the validity of Christophe’s supposed Alma Mater, and it would merely be hours lost and Gregory would come out on top. He had no evidence to back his claims. So, instead, he opted to stand with his feet firmly planted to the wood planks of the bridge.

Gregory didn’t appear to be mad. Instead, he flashed a smile as he grabbed Christophe’s hand. “Come along, walk me home. I dare say I need a thicker jacket.”

Blindly following, Christophe thought that the loud, peculiar pink suit he donned now was already suitable enough. However, he was unable to bear it anymore. He gave Gregory’s arm a tug as he followed behind, prompting Gregory to stop and turn to him. 

“But you knew all the time?” Christophe asked, bewildered that somebody would ever keep such a secret for so long. Gregory had so much to gain from exposing his identity. He had despised him for a few days, refusing eye contact and giving the cold shoulder. He could have easily chased him out of town, and yet, he didn’t.

Gregory looked at him with sincere honesty, making Christophe feel as though he ought to recoil. It pained him. “I’ve known since three days after you came here,” he confessed with a smile. Like a lightbulb, Gregory’s face lit up, and Christophe saw him mouth an excited “oh!” before digging into his suit pocket.

In his hand was a neatly folded piece of paper. “I tore this out of the Indiana Journal.” He looked at Christophe, and he detected a hint of melancholy as he continued “I meant to use it against you, but...” 

Taking a few steps closer to Christophe, Gregory outstretched his arm, holding the paper to Christophe’s face, who stared at it bewilderedly.

“Now I give it to you with all my heart.”

Reluctantly, Christophe gingerly accepted the page, flicking his eyes up at Gregory. He did not deserve it, by any means. However, Gregory was right in front of him, nodding in encouragement, in reassurance, supporting him, validating his conning job. He was not mad. He showed no hesitation, no annoyance, no bitterness. Only honesty and affection.

It was mind boggling, staring down at the incriminating evidence before him. Christophe shook his head, stranded, lost, confused. He could not, for the life of him, understand why Gregory would ever torture himself as he did, waiting, treasuring the paper, watching as the mayor continued to be skeptical of Christophe, watching as the town went on in excitement, in a defeating crescendo of optimism and hope, and he knew, all along, that none of it would happen, that they were all doomed to inevitable heartbreak. 

“But if you knew-“

He was silenced as Gregory grabbed his shoulders and answered him by means of a kiss.

No further discussion was required as Christophe patted the paper in his pocket, following Gregory up the slope leading away from the footbridge.

***

“STOP! STOP! STOP!”

Gerald Broflovski’s screech interrupted the singing styles of the barbershop quartet, who was standing on the stage donning blue and black pinstripe suits. In front of them stood Sheila Broflovski’s ladies, having changed out of their ridiculous Grecian outfits and into frilly blue dresses with absurd, frilly blue hats. Embroidered on the hats were little pink roses, and, the most puzzling of all, hung yellow strands of paper that were perhaps intended to look like golden curls. Apparently, it was necessary for the aesthetic appeal of the costume. Nevertheless, it looked just as it appeared: yellow strands of paper hanging from ridiculous hats donned by ridiculous women.

“STOP, I TELL YOU!”

Behind him stood Eric Cartman and Constable Mackey as they ambled on the platform, all eyes focused to Gerald’s frantic screeching. 

He gestured to Cartman. “Listen to this man!”

Cartman, the warm, gentle, thoughtful man he was, greeted the crowd with a “Why, you BONE-HEADED, SQUARE-TOED, TANK-TOWN BOOBS!” 

Instantly drawn in by his furious shouts, the sociable congregation clambered onto the stage, surrounding Cartman with concerned chattering and open ears.

“I’ve been trying to tell you! Can’t you get it through your heads that this music bitch’s giving you the double shuffle!?” 

Cartman was red-faced as he sneered and degraded his crowd. They were staring back at him with wide eyes and open mouths. He knew he had them good.

“He’s putting the shake on you!” He speechified, pounding his fist against the palm of his hand. “He’s taking out your teeth while you’re looking the other way!”

A man’s voice rose over the growing commotion. “What are you trying to say, mister?”

Glaring at his objector, Cartman angrily pointed a fat finger in the vicinity where he was standing. “I’ll tell you what I’m saying!” He shouted. “There’s burglars in the bedroom while you’re fiddling in the parlor!”

Sheila leaned over to Gerald. “Whose bedroom are the burglars fiddling in, Gerald?”

“Quiet,” Gerald snapped, rolling his eyes. Sheila rolled her eyes back at him.

“I’m talking about Taupe!” 

A commotion in gasps and concerned mumblings.

“A shell worker! A flimflammer! An 18-karat THIEF!”

Scott, deep amidst the crowd, gave his mother a disheartened look.

“You mean the music professor?” Someone, Captain Obvious, Cartman assumed, interjected from the crowd.

He put on a sneer. “Music professor? Not on your fireless cooker, mister!”

Captain Obvious’ best pal, or so it seemed, his partner in crime, shouted “Fellow that organized the band?”

“There isn’t any band!” Cartman shouted, furiously adjusting a strand of hair that had fallen loose. “There hasn’t ever BEEN a band! There won’t ever BE a band!”

As Clyde stared from the sidelines, watching this oaf scream and shout and rampage, he felt his stomach rocket beneath the crust of the earth. He had to tell Christophe immediately. This self-righteous bastard who was rallying to the people was rallying them good, and even Christophe didn’t stand much of a chance against the entire town. 

“And unless you hunt this man down right now like a mad dog, there won’t be a Taupe, either!”

Recognizing his cue, Clyde immediately bolted away from the crowd, hoping that he was still fumbling around at the footbridge, being the mess he was. He also hoped that he didn’t have his head too far lodged in his ass over his heels for Gregory, so that he could have some sort of sense and recognize the magnitude danger he was in.

“He’ll be on his way to the state line!” Cartman screamed, once more pounding his fist against his palm.

It was Gerald who took the responsibility of shouting at the crowd. “I said all along, get his credentials! Didn’t I!?” 

Waving the stack of papers above his head, Cartman declared with a victorious bellow, “I got his credentials right here!”

“Well? What are we waiting for?” Captain Obvious’ wingman announced within the crowd.

“I want my money back!”

“I want his hide!”

“Find him and bring him over to the high school! Roped and hog-tied if you have to!” Gerald commanded. “And don’t let him give you the slip!”

On a cue, Gerald pumped his fist into the air. “ALL RIGHT! AFTER HIM!”

All hell broke loose as people hopped over benches and bushes, pushing and shoving, with one objective in mind: to get that man.

And standing in the middle of the commotion was Scott. The man he had looked up to, the cool, suave, promising professor, who gave him the cornet and promised he would be a professional, who offered to take him to his home town, who praised him and remarked on his potential, that man. 

Scott bolted into the crowd, unable to believe that his mentor was a fraud.


	17. Chapter 17

Clyde hurtled himself into the buggy parked outside of the hotel, clumsily slamming Christophe’s suitcase in the back. He slid into the seat, causing the buggy to rock unsteadily beneath his weight as he threw his hands on the steering wheel, frantically looking around. By whatever merciful deity, he saw his buddy, Craig Tucker, watching him from the sidewalk with an amused expression.

“Have you seen Professor Taupe?” Clyde shouted breathlessly, unsure of why he was yelling. He had no time to think otherwise.

He should have expected Craig to say no. He just stared at him before giving an indifferent “Haven’t been looking for him” and walking away. 

God damn, that bastard. Clyde loved him, he had a great sense of humor, but more often than not he felt like he had had more intriguing conversations with a sack of rocks than with Craig. 

Deciding not to dwell on it too much, Clyde slammed his foot down on the acceleration and hoped Christophe wouldn’t be a dead man by the time he found him, when he found him, wherever he found him.

Gregory gave Christophe a quick wave of the hand as he marched up the steps of his porch. “I’ll only be a minute,” he told him before squeezing himself inside of his house.

Christophe rolled his eyes and shook his head mockingly. Knowing him, he seemed to be the type who would take 10 minutes just to decide on an outfit. 

He leaned against the white picket fence guarding the Thorne lawn, crossing his arms and leg. Spending so much time fretting over whether or not he would miss his train and how to perfectly plan and perpetuate things, and now, he had too much time to spare. He felt unnecessarily antsy, wishing to be on his feet or preoccupy himself with something. Though he was improving on mastering his patience, he still found it difficult to wait for someone else. Especially for Gregory. He had analyzed him pretty thoroughly in the past weeks, but he always managed to somehow sneak past his guard and surprise him in the most subtle of ways. 

Christophe settled on whistling to preoccupy his mind. At least it gave him something to do. He whistled a few notes of “76 Trombones”, as he called it: though he would never outwardly admit it, he had grown rather fond of the song, surprising himself with how quickly he had managed to come up with it and use as a tactic to rile up the entire town. He supposed he could thank it for how smoothly his operation was going. 

Still feeling too restless for his liking, Christophe opted to sing it to himself, mumbling a “While 110 cornets played the air.” He uncrossed his leg, drumming his hand against the fence behind him. “Then I modestly took my place as the one and only bass, and I oompahed up and down the square.”

A foreign sound tore his attention away from his melodifying. Not a sound, but a voice. An unmistakably British voice.

“Goodnight, my someone, goodnight, my love.”

He snapped his head to identify the source. Turning around, he could see a silhouette in an upper level stained glass window. Though he knew just by hearing him sing that the source was Gregory, he found himself looking at the window intently, as if he could barely fathom his presence. It then begged the question: what was he singing for? Then again, what was _he _singing for?__

__Christophe gave a “With 110 cornets right behind”, louder this time. For once, he hoped Gregory could hear._ _

__Perhaps he did, and they may have been initiating a type of call-and-response informal duet. However, Christophe still regarding Gregory’s singing as unexpected as he gave his response._ _

__“Our star is shining its brightest light.”_ _

__Looking up at the sky, Christophe, barely thinking anything of it, responded with “There were horns of every shape and—“_ _

__As he shifted, he felt something brush against his leg from within his pocket. He snagged it and realized, with a pang, that it was the article Gregory had given him with “all his heart”._ _

__It hit him._ _

__He had received the most colossal, the most painful, the most excruciating, the most paralyzing blow he had ever withstood in all his years._ _

__What was worst of all, was that he couldn’t identify what he was feeling._ _

__It happened in a series of moments that he could barely recollect as he frantically attempted to list it out before him. His heart was quickening, his vision seemed to be tunneling, darkening at the edges, his head suddenly seemed to well with insurmountable pressure, he felt stifled and hot, as if he were being roasted alive, but the sweat that was beginning to bead on his forehead sent a cold chill through his spine. Every single one of his movements were delayed, as if he were moving in a haze. He noticed that his hands were trembling, the article he was holding shaking._ _

__No relief was provided when his chest began to well up. He felt like laughing. Mercilessly bursting into hysterics. He felt as though he had been told the funniest joke he had ever had the pleasure of listening to. He laughed through his nose, but the series of exhales were sharp and stuttered as he attempted to let each burst out as discreetly as possible. It did not sound like he was stifling a laugh, but stifling a sob. The pain he felt in his chest was debilitating. It was a painful sensation of ticklishness and itchiness. It was absolutely unbearable._ _

__What was most unbearable of all, however, was that he could not get Gregory off of his mind._ _

__And then it hit him._ _

__Once more._ _

__Twice as hard._ _

__Knocking him to the ground. Pummeling him through the earth’s surface. Bludgeoning him and spitting on his grave and bashing his head in._ _

__This sensation he felt so strongly, so agonizingly, so ferociously was so foreign because he knew he had never felt it so strongly, or, perhaps ever. And, to his horror, he could pinpoint exactly what it was._ _

__As Shakespeare had once said, love is a smoke and is made with the fume of sighs._ _

__Numbly forcing himself to regain any sense of composure he once had, Christophe heaved a shuddered sigh. He felt like a stranger in his own body. He lacked the strength or mindset to scold him, to get it together man, look at yourself, you are a coward, get a grip._ _

__Instead, he opted to mumble a melody, a nearly inaudible “Sweet dreams be yours dear, if dreams there be.” He gave the token he held in his fingers a squeeze, feeling incapable of doing anything else. All of his energy seemed to be drained. Or, perhaps it was focused on blocking out the pain his heart was brimming with. It was not doing a very adequate job of blocking._ _

__Christophe was certain he was disillusioned when he swore he heard Gregory, whose voice was slightly muffled from behind the pane of the window, opted to sing his chorus, giving a confident “While 110 cornets played the air.”_ _

__Feeling ill, Christophe slumped against the fence, breathing in and out of his nose quickly, doing little to improve his state. He absolutely despised feeling like a caged animal, unable to control his emotions or even do an adequate job of hiding them. No, he could only watch as he made an absolute fool, an absolute coward of himself._ _

__He mumbled to himself once more, unsteadily, frantically attempting to find a way to preoccupy himself. “I wish I may, and I wish I might.” He closed his eyes, tightening his lip in pain. “Now, goodnight, my someone.”_ _

__He gave up. He surrendered. He submitted. He had become the very thing he scoffed, being in love. It was nothing but a distraction. One could not think clearly or act the same, no matter how much they attempted to disillusion themselves into believing otherwise. This was his proof. He was proving each of his suspicions._ _

__Resigned, he gave a miserable, cynical chuckle, holding his head in his hand, his fingers over his brow and his thumb on his chin to conceal his face._ _

__“Goodnight.”_ _

__Cartman had done an exceptional job of riling up the civilians of River City. Scott darted past the school board, who was ambling through the streets, each holding blazing torches and holding onto their hats as the frantic search for Professor Taupe continued. The outrage was strong in the air: people searched the livery stable, the freight depo (per Cartman’s suggestion, who screamed “I SAID, TRY THE FREIGHT DEPO!” when no one moved at first), the lumber dealer. The fire department had sent out an engine, muddled with the countless number of horse drawn buggies boarded by enraged townspeople._ _

__With each step, Clyde swore his heart was going to leap out of his throat as he thudded across the sidewalk, aimlessly running as fast as he could, certain to stumble over himself at some point. Christophe’s baggage provided no relief, either. He swore he might burst into tears when he saw him standing outside of the librarian’s house._ _

__Clyde had no time to revel in the fact that Christophe didn’t appear to notice him at first: usually he could sense anyone approaching from a mile away._ _

__“Let’s go, Christophe,” Clyde pleaded, grabbing his arm. “I got the flivver in the alley all cranked up.”_ _

__Clyde was rather discombobulated, his hat tilted to the side and his brown hair sticking to his forehead from sweat. His shoulders were rising and falling as he took giant breaths of air, looking exhausted. Suddenly, the thought of leaving now, leaving Gregory, seemed all too soon. Christophe turned to look at the window where Gregory had once stood. His silhouette was not to be found._ _

__“They’re onto you already!” Clyde told him desperately as Christophe ignored him. Christophe lacking a sense of urgency was one thing he had never expected to see. He shook his arm furiously, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “There’s a crazy anvil salesman running all over town spilling everything!”_ _

__He jolted forward a few steps, expecting that to snag Christophe’s attention. However, he heard no curses or mutterings or interjections or footsteps. Clyde jerked around, clamping a hand on top of his hat to keep it from falling off. Christophe was still looking up at Gregory’s house with a strange expression on his face._ _

__“COME ON!” Clyde wailed, jabbing his thumb behind him. He was more stressed about Christophe’s fate than Christophe himself._ _

__Clyde gave a despairing “Son of a bitch!” to himself as he decided not to waste any more time arguing to a brick wall. He flew around the corner, nearly knocking over a woman who was running with equal amounts of urgency._ _

__Christophe heard Gregory’s mother tell him urgently “You better run, Professor, they’re talking about tar and feathers” as he turned to watch her streak to the porch. For whatever reason, he only listened to her numbly. The subtle jerk of his hand before him was the only indication that he should get moving, his body was telling him to, or, his mind, maybe, whatever, he could not concentrate. He knew he should be hightailing away, leaving the city in the dust, sparing his life, but he could not move from his post when Gregory was still in his house. Only be a minute, his ass, he told himself reproachfully, but he caught himself smirking as he thought it._ _

__On cue, the door of the house opened and Gregory bolted onto the porch. Christophe assumed he had heard the commotion as he heard Gregory give a frantic “What is it!?” to his mother._ _

__“I’ve been looking all over for Scott, he’s run away, maybe he’s in his room,” his mother explained breathlessly before shoving Gregory to the side and darting into the house._ _

__Gregory turned to look at Taupe and found himself pausing in his footsteps. Taupe was staring at him, slack jawed, wide eyes, and eyebrows raised. For the first time, Gregory could see pure, unadulterated, unfiltered, absolute, stark fear on his face. And yet, he got the notion that it was not from the talk of an angry mob approaching. There was a look in his eyes, buried deep in his eyes, a look of mourning and pain._ _

__Frozen. Christophe had used that term to describe the situations where he found himself at a standstill. But now, he truly, truly felt frozen. He could not move his body or limbs or muscles or anything. He was made of cement. Gregory rushed towards him, and Christophe only stared into his marvelous blue eyes, incapable of doing anything else at the moment. Though he had made snide comments about Gregory’s uppity appearance, especially in juxtaposition to his own, he found himself captivated by how neat and well kept he was. He looked exactly  
like his personality. Organized, confident, intriguing._ _

__“It is not often I find myself at a loss of words, but...” Christophe sputtered before faltering. He felt that if he spoke any more, he would be taking away from what he saw in Gregory, as absurd as it sounded. He wanted to focus every fiber in his body to watching him. Simply put, he was captivated, enthralled._ _

__Gregory grabbed Taupe’s arm, staring into his eyes as knitted his eyebrows. “It’s alright. Don’t you know that? You don’t owe me a word—“ He saw Taupe’s throat bob as he went to open his mouth, “—not a word.” He shook Taupe’s arm, begging, “Now hurry, please.”_ _

__Hurry, he couldn’t. It was like he had forgotten what the word meant, what it entailed. He only gaped at Gregory’s hand on his arm. He felt like an animal trapped in a cage. No. He was an animal trapped in the cage. He was enclosed in the confines of love._ _

__“CHRISTOPHE!”_ _

__Gregory raised his eyebrows, sparing a moment to permit himself to be surprised. Clyde Donovan, the man who worked at the livery stable, frantically ran up behind Taupe—no, Christophe, he supposed it was, shaking his shoulder furiously. In his spare hand was a giant, clunky suitcase that Gregory recognized must belong to Christophe. Christophe gave Gregory a look that confirmed that was, in fact, his real name. How Clyde knew it, Gregory was at a loss, but for once he wouldn’t allow himself to get caught up in the details. It was a very pretty name._ _

__God damn it all. Christophe didn’t move a muscle as he was staring intently at Gregory. Clyde, giving a strangled noise, threw himself back around the corner to where the mob was approaching with torches ablaze._ _

__“HEY, HE’S NOT AROUND HERE, FOLKS!” He shouted, cupping a hand over his mouth. He pointed furiously to where they were approaching, feeling he would dislocate his shoulder if he waved around with any more strength. “LET’S TRY DOWN BY THE CREAMERY!”_ _

__Without a second thought, Clyde barreled towards the mob, who gave each other looks before following his lead and turning the other way around. Clyde begged Christophe would wake up and smell the tar and feathers soon. He couldn’t keep this up for much longer._ _

__“Scott!”_ _

__The sound of frantic footsteps caught Christophe’s ear as Gregory shouted Scott’s name. Certainly enough, the boy was running towards them as fast as he could, practically a blur. Christophe knelt down on instinct and stuck his arms out to catch him._ _

__Christophe nearly fell over from the impact of Scott colliding into his arms. He heard Scott give a strangled gasp as he wriggled frantically in Christophe’s stronghold._ _

__“Hey, hey! Hey! Hold on a minute, son.” He grunted, wrestling to keep him still. The kid was like a fish._ _

__“I’m not your thon! Let me go!” Scott cried, quite literally. His voice sounded tired and strangled, and Christophe could see the quick glint of a tear on his cheek as he continued to writhe around._ _

__“No, not until I talk to you a minute!” Christophe told him, kneeling to look at him directly in his eyes. Scott gradually wore himself out, giving pathetic kicks and punches. He attempted to pry himself out of Christophe’s grip to no avail._ _

__Scott finally gave in physically, and opted to scowl at him instead. “I won’t lithen. You wouldn’t tell the truth anyway.”_ _

__“I would, too,” Christophe countered tonelessly._ _

__“Would not!”_ _

__“Would, too.” Christophe returned Scott’s scowl with a curt shake of the head and lift of the chin. “I will tell you anything you want to know.”_ _

__Scott bit his lip, his scowl never once faltering. He stared at Christophe with malice, malice that he knew was poorly concealed pain._ _

__Then he asked, in an even, angry tone,_ _

__“Can you lead a band?”_ _

__It would be harsh to crush his dreams and tell him no, he could not. But it would be downright cruel to lie right to his face._ _

__“No.”_ _

__Christophe stared him firmly in the eye as Scott tensed in his grip._ _

__“Are you a big liar?” He asked, trying to remain as intimidating as possible. It wasn’t working very efficiently._ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__“Are you a dirty, rotten crook!?”_ _

__“Yes!”_ _

__Christophe had said it with a snarl, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. Scott began to wriggle around in his grip, visibly upset._ _

__“Let me go, you big liar!” He cried, attempting to claw over Christophe’s shoulder. All composure that was restored in that brief interrogation was lost as he resorted back to kicking and squirming. Christophe continued to be on his knees, strengthening his vice on Scott with a grunt and intent bite of the lip, scowling. He admired the kid’s resilience, inconvenient as it was for him._ _

__“Well? What is the matter?” Christophe grunted coldly as he continued to wrangle Scott. “You wanted the truth, did you not? Now, look!”_ _

__Christophe gave Scott a short yet firm shake of the shoulders as he forced him to make eye contact. “I am bigger than you are, and you are going to stand there and get it all, so you might as well stop wiggling.”_ _

__A part of Scott, Christophe sensed, wanted to continue idolizing him and listen to what he had to say. So when he finally gave up and stopped moving, pouting at him with a distorted scowl, he knew it was more than him blindly accepting and doing as he was told to respect his elders._ _

__“Now,” Christophe growled, cocking an eyebrow. He was not necessarily being harsh just for shits and giggles, but to capture his attention, to make a point that he wanted Scott to listen, and that he was listening to Scott._ _

__“There are two things you are entitled to know. One, you are a wonderful kid. I thought so from the first. That is why I wanted you in the band!” He shot him a quick, excited grin before scowling once more. “So you would stop moping around and feeling sorry for yourself!”_ _

__Gregory observed Christophe begin to adjust Scott's collar, smoothing his suit and fixing his little tie. He looked strikingly fatherly. Gregory doubted he even knew he was doing it, just a mere absentminded gesture. To him, watching as this man essentially took care of his brother, so willing to tell him the truth, to him, that little gesture was anything but absentminded._ _

__Scott was slowly giving in, but he was not so easily convinced to drop his indignation. “What band?” He answered tonelessly, in a way that struck a chord, even with Christophe. It was too jaded, even for his liking._ _

__“I always think there’s a band, kid,” he muttered quietly._ _

__“What’th the other thing I’m entitled to know?” Scott’s tone was less steely and more curious._ _

__Christophe had stopped rebuttoning Scott’s suit. Instead, Gregory could see his eyes flick to his brow, then to the bottom right corners of his eyes as he pursed his lip. He didn’t say anything, just stood up._ _

__“Well, the other thing is none of your business, come to think of it,” he responded gruffly, looking down at Scott. Gregory noticed there were small pebbles and residue from the sidewalk sticking to Christophe’s pants, and that he did not bother to brush it away. It made him cringe. He certainly could not do the same._ _

__Pausing, Scott stared down at his feet before looking up at Christophe with a bitter squint. “I with you’d never come to River Thity,” he said, his voice wavering once more._ _

__“No you don’t, Scott.”_ _

__He hadn’t even recognized that he had said it, but Gregory saw Scott turn slowly to him, perplexed._ _

__“Gregory? You believe him?” His voice was apprehensive and fragile, as if he were treading into uncharted territories._ _

__Now, it was Gregory’s turn to kneel and place his hands on Scott’s arms, looking at him directly in his eyes. “I believe everything he ever said,” he informed him with stark sincerity._ _

__The debilitating bludgeon he had received earlier made a cameo as Christophe stood silently, clenching his hands, suddenly hyperaware of his surroundings. The paining honesty in Gregory’s voice, the hint of desperation in his eyes that pleaded Scott would listen to him, the way he mimicked his own stance just moments prior, the kneeling, the grip on his brother. The way Scott fidgeted with his suit jacket. The monotonous song of the crickets around them. The subtle hint of a breeze providing little relief as Christophe could feel his head pound and the stifling heat crawl at the edges of his forehead. The way every hair on his body seemed to be erect. The way he could not stop staring at the man who was defending his fraud, defending his actions, supporting and excusing and explaining his ways._ _

__He found himself wishing to make Gregory act and react, to see his reaction, as he normally did. However, he wished to see his reaction for the pleasure of knowing he had made him react the way he did. He supposed it was confusing and, simply put, stupid. But he wanted to see his influence in the man before him. He found himself, for the first time in his life, that he could ever recall, wishing to donate a part of his independence to Gregory. He wanted, he realized, to make him happy._ _

__It hurt. He was going against everything he had lived for. But, it was a hurt of reward, per se. Of giving. He did not want to assign it the label of a sacrifice, as he acknowledged labels were often meaningless, but he came up short of any other suitable title._ _

__“But he promithed uth,” Scott was saying to Gregory._ _

__“I know what he promised us. And it all happened, just like he said. The lights, the colors, the cymbals, and the flags.” Gregory was smiling as he said it. Christophe continued to observe in silence._ _

__Any traces of hurt were seemingly gone from Scott’s tone as he leaned his head to the side. “Where wath all that?” He asked._ _

__“In the way every kid in this town walked around all summer,” Gregory answered. “And looked. And acted.” He took a deep breath, hoping his brother would recognize the beauty of Christophe’s actions. He hoped Christophe would recognize the beauty of his actions. “Especially you, Scott. And the parents, too. Does mother wish he’d never come to River City?”_ _

__“Well... you do, don’t you?”_ _

__Hearing his own brother vocalize a repressed fear he did not know he possessed made Gregory’s heart practically fracture into two. It was in that moment that he realized he wanted people to know that yes, he was friends with Christophe, yes, he valued Christophe’s company, yes, he knew Christophe, The Christophe, The Professor Taupe, that, yes, yes, yes. Yes, he loved Christophe._ _

__Gregory drew another breath, swallowing the lead brick that had formed in his throat and in his chest. “No, Scott.”_ _

__No one said anything after that. Gregory tilted his head past Scott’s shoulder to take a look at Christophe. He could see his brow tensing and the corners of his mouth twitch as he fought to conceal the emotion that was surely brewing within him._ _

__“You’d better go, Christophe,” Gregory pleaded gently. “Please.”_ _

__Hearing Gregory call him by his name, his real name, for that matter, sent a prickle through his scalp as Christophe could not unglue his jaw. Cowardly as it may be, he found himself planning one of his sacrifices, sacrificing his safety and freedom in favor of being with Gregory. He would voluntarily take a scalding bucket of tar over the head if he could stay._ _

__Miserably, Scott turned away from Gregory’s grip. “Go on, Profethor,” he mumbled, his voice beginning to break. He shuffled to Christophe, looking down at his feet. Christophe watched as Scott nudged his forehead onto Christophe’s arm, moving past him and attempting to push him away pathetically. “Hurry up.”_ _

__“I can’t go, Scott.”_ _

__That caught his attention. Scott paused his moping, turning to look at Christophe. “Why not?”_ _

__Christophe took a short intake of air as he raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Well, for the first time in my life...” He trailed off, once again flicking his eyebrows. “I have got my foot caught in the door.”_ _

__Recognizing the magnitude of Christophe’s statement, Gregory’s chest welled as he continued to stay crouched on the ground. His limbs were unable to work. He did not have to be told twice that Christophe was referring to him. The unalloyed distress in his eyes that Gregory had seen when he stepped onto the porch, the moment of a man stricken by vulnerability and enabling his emotions to plainly paint a picture on his face; it was the fear of being in love._ _

__He knew, obviously, that a kindling of sorts certainly existed previously. Had it not, he doubted he and Christophe would have snogged three times. Yet, in this moment, it truly felt real, alive, present, it felt like reality. Not a half baked dream or aspiration. It was real, very real. It was definite that he, too, reciprocated Gregory’s affections._ _

__Gregory realized he was being pulled to his feet. Christophe was holding his hands, pulling him up. He stopped for a moment, when Gregory was eye-level with him, slightly crouching to accommodate his height. He shot a crooked grin before gently pushing on his shoulders and allowing Gregory to stand to his full height._ _

__Once more grabbing his hands, Christophe tilted his head slightly to his chest, all the while maintaining eye contact with Gregory. He noticed another bob of the throat, another nervous tick, perhaps. The grip on Gregory’s hands tightened as he gave it a squeeze. And he opened his mouth,_ _

__“There was love all around,  
But I never heard it singing   
No, I never heard it at all,”_ _

__It was the confessional Gregory had sang to him earlier, down at the footbridge. Christophe quickly sealed his mouth shut, evidently a tad embarrassed to be serenading Gregory from his own heart, not for his own personal gain, or plan, or mission, or scheme, but for voicing his own affections in an attempt to be theatrical like Gregory himself. He could tell he was attempting to play it off, cracking another nervous grin that deflated almost instantly. Now, he was staring at Gregory, shaking his head, wincing, as if there was something dire he was bursting to confess._ _

__Christophe had closed his eyes as Gregory suddenly felt himself gravitate towards him. He practically threw Gregory upon himself with surprising amount of force, his grip only seeming to grow stronger as he buried his head against the side of Gregory’s neck._ _

__And, once more, Christophe forced himself to submit. To surrender. To capitulate. To yield. To relent. With acquiescence, he permitted himself to embrace Gregory, not to woo him, to make him unbalanced, but for his own comfort. The voice spitting in the back of his mind, screeching that he was off his guard, he was going against everything he believed in, he was setting himself up for failure, that voice only served as a motivation to strengthen his clasp._ _

__“Until there was you,” Christophe mumbled, borderline inaudible._ _

__Gregory returned the embrace as passionately as he could, giving a contented sigh. The two of them stood on the sidewalk, clinging in each others arms, closing each and every gap, both physically and emotionally. They conversed their unspoken affections and thoughts through the language of physical affection. None of them said a word, as there were no words to be spoken._ _

__“Christophe!”_ _

__Clyde had no time to curse at Christophe, who had not moved an inch in the time he had bought for him. In fact, he was all cuddled up to Gregory, the librarian. A very minuscule part of Clyde felt bad for splitting them up, but he absolutely had to get him out of where he was._ _

__“CHRISTOPHE!” He slapped his shoulder furiously as he skidded by, lugging his briefcase and once more attempting to regain balance as he tripped over himself. Christophe had not moved or even turned to look at him._ _

__“THEY’RE HERE! RUN THIS WAY! THIS WAY!” He shouted, pointing to where he had ran minutes ago to distract the mob._ _

__Christophe was reminded of Scott’s presence when he heard him plead “Go on, Profethor! That way! That way!”_ _

__Instead, Christophe moved his hands to the sides of Gregory’s shoulders, as if he were preparing to push him off. But, and call it cowardly, he did not want to run. What he wanted, more than possibly anything, was to stay with Gregory. He could feel Gregory tense up in his own grip, feeling his fingers curl on his shoulders, attempting to pull him closer._ _

__Nothing, he felt, could scare him. Not the threat of tar and feathers. Not the threat of his identity being exposed. Not the threat of being run out of town. Not the threat of the voices rapidly amplified around him. Not the threat of the torches and lanterns that began to swarm around him._ _

__The only time Christophe faltered in his embrace was when Gregory watched him be torn away. The man he had attempted to seduce before to quiet, the anvil salesman, Cartman, had pulled him away and was attempting to wrangle him as other townspeople swarmed around him. Gregory could hear Christophe snarling about pigs and chauvinism and bitches and an abundance of other expletives._ _

__Worst of all was that Gregory could merely observe as Christophe was bombarded by shouting voices and frothing mouths. Gregory could have easily resorted to violence had he chosen to. He was not one to easily admit defeat, but even he recognized the size of the crowd around him. It would be futile._ _

__Christophe was succumbing to the crowd, slowly, continuing to list off obscenities. In an instant, Gregory caught his eye. From beneath the throngs of the furious mob, Christophe gave him a wide eyed look._ _

__Even then, as his life was in the hands of the mob, presented in a silver platter, even then, Gregory knew the look on his face was anger and frustration. Perhaps a subtle hint of fear, but it was nowhere near comparable to the terror in his eyes when he had watched Gregory emerging from his home._ _

__As soon as the ambush had started, it was over. The mob ambled its way down the street, and any traces of Christophe were lost. Clyde Donovan, the man who worked at the livery, gave Gregory a pitiful look before making his way after the crowd, Christophe’s briefcase in hand._ _

__Gregory was nearly knocked off balance when something below him pummeled into him. It was Scott. He had flung himself onto Gregory in an embrace._ _

__He returned it numbly._ _


	18. Chapter 18

“And always remember, fellow River Cityians, I did everything in my power to prevent this dire happening from... uh...” 

Gerald Broflovski, who was standing at the podium in front of the crowd of townspeople who sardined themselves into a rather stuffy schoolroom, faltered as he shook his fist and babbled apocryphally to his audience. Each person wished to know the fate of Professor Taupe. In fact, that was all they were there for. Mayor Broflovski’s words meant nothing unless they included “Taupe”.

“...happening! Fourscore...”

A man in the front row of uncomfortably small wooden desks, Herbert Garrison, Gerald recalled, positioned next to the school board rose suddenly and waved his hat dismissively. “How do you propose to get our money back?” 

The sound of shuffling as Gerald’s wife and her followers scurried into the classroom prudently, fashionably late in their absurd Grecian getup, distorted the sound of Sarah Valmer’s protest.

“That professor collected almost $300 on uniforms just tonight!”

It was Sharon Marsh who marked her presence next by rising and throwing off her hat of faux golden, paper curls that looked even more like streamers than it ever did hair. “I haven’t seen a uniform on my boy either since just after supper!”

A nameless elderly woman interjected next. “He’s a kidnapper!”

“That’s a fine situation we have here...”

Bebe Steven’s contribution became muddled in the dissonance and cacophony from all of the townspeople at once, eagerly fighting to put in their two cents. Dresses fluttered. People rose. Fingers pointed. Lips snarled. Voices rose.

An impending sense of helplessness hurrying to settle into Gerald, he raised his fist and shouted “Fourscore...” above the crowd in a desperate attempt to pacify them. 

In typical fashion, it did, in fact, not pacify them. 

Debating whether or not he should cause a scene and throw something, perhaps the eraser resting on the ledge of the chalkboard behind him, Gerald felt himself deflate in relief as he spotted a set of doors open in the back of the classroom. It was Constable Mackey, who was glaring and squinting at him, motioning to him and hissing phrases Gerald could not make out over the discord of the congregation. 

However, when Mackey snapped, nodded, and pardoned himself to be squeezed into the hall once more, Gerald stepped out from behind his podium, bellowing “JUST A MINUTE! VIRTUE HAS TRIUMPHED!”

For once he had effectively captured the attention of the townspeople, who quickly regarded him with visible question marks upon their faces. 

“The sword of retribution has cut down Professor Taupe!” He announced proudly, surveying them with a hungry, triumphant grin. 

It was as if they had been cued.  
Bursting through the doors led Constable Mackey and Eric Cartman, both dragging an irate Christophe along with them. He had been detained, his hands cuffed in front of him as he could only march forward into the schoolroom. Cartman propelled him forward, giving him a shove and shooting a smirk each time Christophe turned to glare at him and mutter expletives under his breath. 

Meanwhile, a wave of audible interjections bobbed through the throng as not one body dared to strip their attention away from the Professor, who appeared to be rather flustered. There was an air about him that made him seem more disheveled than usual. The incongruity of his unkempt hair and dark eyes and his clean, white suit seemed to become magnified in that moment.

Although he was escorting Christophe away onto the platform where Gerald stood smugly, an apparent wave of emotion must have overcome Mackey on the spot as he dove onto Christophe in a strange, physical catharsis to inflict some form of bumbling harm upon him.

Understandably, Christophe made a strangled noise of surprise and anger. To the rescue, Clyde, who had followed behind, albeit tentatively, not wishing to be handcuffed himself, grabbed Mackey and pulled him off with ease. Christophe was visibly furious, sputtering and attempting to dignify himself by censoring an inevitable rampage. However, in a brief moment, Clyde and Christophe shared an unspoken conversation. A simple “Thanks” and “No problem”.

In what could be best labeled as a fugue state, Gregory entered the schoolroom and observed as Christophe was herded onto the platform at the head of the classroom. None of it felt real; his thoughts, which were disconcertingly calm and indifferent, were whispers from a voice foreign to his own. His movements and mannerisms seemed foreign. The townspeople he had recognized so easily and learned so much about all seemed to be strangers in angry, hungry masks with greedy eyes. And as he watched Christophe snarl and glare at the constable and Cartman, that was his sole reminded that this was, in fact, a real event unfurling before his eyes.

“And if there are those as I’ve heard who are melting tar and plucking feathers, I will not say them nay!”

Mayor Broflovski was evidently sickeningly proud of himself, clearly revering in his fifteen minutes of fame, that people had focused their attention to him and found value in his gibberish. Gregory positioned himself in front of Christophe, so as to be reassured by his tense presence behind him. At this moment, he seemed to be his only link to reality.

Therefore, to assert that he was here, that his presence made a contribution to the crowd, he stormed onto the platform and with an angry yet delicate (in typical Gregory fashion) shove, pushed Broflovski away from the podium and gripped the edges with his hands. An animal desire clawed in his ribs to scream some sense into the rabid, foaming at the mouth derelicts before him. He could feel Christophe staring.

“I should think some of you could forget your everlasting Iowa stubbornness long enough to remember what this town was like before Professor Taupe came,” he announced clearly, ensuring to look each and every person in the eye. Nobody made any verbal protests, but apprehensive glances were traded in small clusters throughout the classroom.

“Do you?” He urged, allowing his voice to rise. “Well? Do you!?”

That was the first time that Christophe had truly heard genuine anger and outrage in Gregory’s voice. Even the times he had scolded and reprimanded and sighed and chastised him, now, in comparison, those instances were a mere afterthought. A part of him told him that Gregory was being irrational, that he’d rather have tar and feathers coat his skin than having to watch Gregory receive the stares he was subject to right now. He knew he would land himself in trouble, too, and Christophe didn’t deserve to have someone sacrifice themselves for him. It was too cruel. 

Contemplating speaking up so any scornful attention would be directed towards him instead, Christophe hesitated as Gerald shoved Gregory aside, who was glaring at him with a ferocity equal to his tone. Again, it was on a magnitude that even Christophe had never seen. All of his movements, the way he even rolled his eyes towards the mayor seemed to be weaponized, as if he would be ready to strike at any moment.

Gerald appeared rather anxious. “Now, hold up there,” he chuckled nervously, giving Gregory the side eye. However, Gregory, in his dignified, stubborn demeanor, refused to go down without a fight.

“And after he came...” he continued heatedly, once more moving Gerald out of the way, who let out a very audible scoff. “Suddenly, there were things to do. Things to be proud of. And people to go out of your way for.”

Christophe noticed that Gregory had spared him a look when he had said that last part.

It was the school board turned barbershop quartet Gregory directed his attention towards next. “Surely some of you could be grateful for what this man has brought to us.” Evidently, they received the hint, as like scolded schoolchildren they buried their heads and stroked their chins and fiddled in their laps uncomfortably. Amid his catharsis, Gregory was relieved to find that his words were weaseling their way through the thick skulls of the townspeople before him. “And I should think you would want to admit it!”

“You’re wasting a great deal of time here!” Gerald snarled, once more forcing his way to the podium and abruptly excusing Gregory. 

Resigned though not defeated, Gregory retreated in front of Christophe. He heard him utter a quiet “Well done.”

“If there is a person in this hall who doesn’t want this man Taupe tarred and feathered, let him stand up!” Gerald declared, scowling. The statement appeared to be rhetorical. Rather, an obligation. 

Though he was not necessarily under any sort of trouble, Gregory felt as though the boiling tar had coated his cheeks instead when no one twitched a muscle. Dread and anger boiled inside of his stomach as he turned to look at Christophe, anticipating he would be just as outraged.

He was not. Instead he looked back at him with an emotion that Gregory could identify as sympathy. It seemed he had accepted his fate. 

The pain of Gregory’s desperation punctured Christophe and stung far worse than the meek, uncomfortable shuffling of the congregation before him. He supposed he should be alarmed that the threat of tar and feathers was growing more imminent by the seconds, but somehow he felt unnaturally calm about it, as if he were about to face a minor inconvenience he would merely brush off minutes later.

Wood sighing as weight was released off of it tore Christophe and Gregory’s attention away from each other.

Amidst the crowd stood Ms. Thorne, a single brave outlier who appeared unbothered. Gregory heard Christophe sigh through his nose tensely.

Little bubbles of murmurings surfaced through the crowd as they also came to realize Ms. Thorne’s presence.

The murmurings evolved into a crescendo when Kyle Broflovski defiantly stood as well. 

Gerald made a suppressed, strangled noise in his throat as he grappled with the realization that his own son had betrayed him. Gregory could see that this was a lot for Kyle. Although he was scowling at his father and attempting to puff out his chest, his fingers clenched into a fist were twitching slightly. 

It was a domino effect. Randy Marsh nodded to each member of the quartet and waved a hand, and Christophe observed as each man rose and crossed their arms in front of his chest. 

Even more surprisingly was Sheila Broflovski’s posse, who rose in an attempt to appear righteous and fair, but there was an air of fear about them. Their costumes rustled rather noisily.

Sheila remained seated.

One by one, as murmurs continued to weave throughout the crowd, more and more people rose, some defiantly, some hesitantly. Some notable figures, some anonymous allies. Soon enough, Sheila remained the only person seated. Her lips were pursed and her eyebrows knitted, evidently rather anxious.

Gerald was watching her like a hawk. A cowardly, red faced, trembling hawk. 

And, once more, the sound of rustling signified that yet another ally had joined the revolution.

“SHEILA! SIT DOWN!” Gerald barked manically, flailing his fists and spitting. It was not a shout of anger, but a cry for help. He was outnumbered. His authority, the joke that it was, did not matter, and he knew it more than anybody else in that hall.

Wood rattled as Sheila quickly threw herself back onto the bench, her hands clamped across her lap and scowling. Christophe was anticipating her eyebrows to rip off or skin to tear with how ferocious her expression was.

A prickle of pride prodded Gregory’s chest as he watched his mother nudge Sheila condescendingly. This time, she rose with no hesitation, her glare somehow growing even more heated as she jutted her chin forward and nodded furiously. She was not going to back down.

There was a pause as Gerald fought not to scream, or run, or burst into tears. “And the rest of you who are standing there like a cote of Shropshire sheep, maybe you can remember some other things!” 

His voice was unnaturally steady—for the current context, anyway. “Like what you paid for all those uniforms. Technical instruction books. And band instruments! With a clear understanding and warranty your children would be taught to play in a band!”

In cowardly fashion, the audience’s Iowa stubbornness faltered as they decided they would much rather be more comfortable sitting down. 

Gerald was now sporting a sadistic grin. “Well?” He demanded. “Where’s the band? WHERE’S THE BAND!?”

Christophe admitted he was caught—well, thrown, if one was to be honest about it—off guard rather easily as a shrill screech pierced his ear. It was the sound of a whistle.

Everyone rapidly turned their heads and attention towards the doors leading into the classroom. The glass was designed in a way that morphed the outside view, and therefore no one could truly identify who was on the other side, but it was evident there were multiple people.

That fucking kid.

Christophe realized, bile forming in his throat, that the eye attempting to peer through the window, the face craning its neck, belonged to Stanley Marsh. He could identify his black hair and his inquisitive movements. 

The whistle screamed again.

Two younger boys pulled the doors open to reveal Stanley Marsh facing the congregation with a whistle in his mouth. 

He looked ridiculous, but in a ridiculousness that he executed rather well.

On his body was an off color red uniform with three large gold stripes on the torso. Golden braids trailed down the sleeves, and he was sporting white pants and matching shoes. On top of his head was a standard white marching hat with a small red feather to boot. In his right hand was a gold staff with a globe at the tip.

Stan marched exaggeratedly into the classroom, pumping the staff up and down and unsuccessfully hiding a laugh. He looked at Christophe, who, he realized, was probably rather pathetic with his hands dangling in front of him, handcuffed together. Stan cracked a grin at him and provided a wink in very Christophe fashion.

Once he arrived to his destination, which was left of the podium where Gerald was standing at, fuming, Stan paused and looked at the door before motioning with his hand to allow another to follow behind him.

In ran a short, brown haired, eager eyed, freckle faced boy enthusiastically, carrying his hat in one hand and a cornet in the other. A chorus of “aww”s answered the boy as he ran up beside Stan, who clapped him on the shoulder brotherly.

Humorous as the “aww”s were, Gregory confessed that a gasp had escaped his own lips as he observed his own brother dash into the room with a newfound exuberance. To think that he was sulking like the rest of them some minutes ago.

More and more children followed Scott, some his size; some Stan’s. The commotion rose into a controlled din as the power of boys in their uniforms easily influenced the audience’s opinion on Christophe’s punishment.

Christophe found himself having difficulty with swallowing. Foolishly, he felt rather embarrassed, though he could not identify what there was to be embarrassed for. He could see Gregory looking at him excitedly, more excited than any of the boys lined up and hoisting their instruments for all to see. 

Gregory watched Christophe intently, who was on defense mode. He was twitching his head back and forth as he stared at all of the children in front of him, his eyebrows furrowed in deep perplexion. His eyes were darting back and forth as he battled to decide what it was he should devote the most attention to. He was gnawing on his lip and blinking quite profusely, yet another nervous tic that Gregory admitted he found a tad endearing. 

Lightbulb shining, Gregory jolted around and regarded the large, white instructional stick resting on the chalkboard slate. He grabbed it and offered it to Christophe, who analyzed it absentmindedly before hesitantly accepting it how he could, limited by the handcuffs. He scowled at Gregory curiously, who merely beamed at him, clearly pleased by the idea he was fostering in his head.

For whatever arbitrary reason Christophe could feel an impending sense of doom linger in the pit of his stomach, and it wasn’t from the tar and feathers. He observed cautiously as Gregory reached down to snag a crate that was positioned next to the podium and pick it up before grabbing one of Christophe’s hands with the other. 

Foggily Christophe followed, twisting his neck to try and view every person he passed as he sensed the din begin to let up around him. They squeezed themselves through the rows of band members and in front, where Gregory gingerly placed the crate down on the floor, stared at it with a frown, moved it slightly to the left so as to center it, and raise his eyebrows expectantly, as if waiting for a reaction or answer from Christophe.

Christophe was too busy attempting to formulate some form of a plan to account for this sudden change to do anything. Therefore, Gregory snagged his arm and pulled him onto the crate, signaling that he wished for Christophe to stand there.

He obeyed, but eyed the stick he was holding awkwardly in his hands. Feeling like a mother attempting to pry a distraction away from her child, Gregory plucked the stick away from him and snapped it cleanly in half over his knee, showing no signs of exertion of energy. Instead, he handed a half of the stick to Christophe with an accomplished smile.

That was why he could sense danger lurking. The conniving little mastermind had set him up, put him on the spot. He wanted him to conduct the children before him. He thought that he had made it rather evident that he could do no such thing, that he had no knowledge of music, that he could not lead a band, that he was a big liar, that he was a dirty, rotten crook. 

The widening of Christophe’s eyes and dilation of his pupils indicated that he had finally understood the purpose of Gregory’s little charade. Doubt and fear allowed themselves to flicker onto his face as he once more uncharacteristically faltered in his guard. Never once resigning in his smile, Gregory confidently marched to the bench closest and diagonal from where Christophe was standing. His shoulder were hunched as he let his grip on the makeshift conductor’s wand falter. 

He raised his hands as well as he could, slowly, leaning back, like dipping a toe in freezing water. The children stared at him expectantly. Even Stan appeared rather surprised. He maintained his awkward position, leaning away and holding his hands out, but Gregory heard a small, inaudible curse as he dropped his posture.

Christophe whirled to face him, stepping off of the platform rather quickly. 

“No, I couldn’t-“ he hissed, and Gregory knew it was not out of modesty. In fact, the fear that plagued his face, that furrowed his brows and dilated his pupils and hunched his shoulders was almost as strong as the fear he had witnessed when he stepped out onto his porch and caught Christophe staring, red faced.

Knowing well that he simply couldn’t allow Christophe to back down, Gregory pushed him gently back onto the platform by the elbow. An eery calmness had begun to settle within him, a false sense of security. He found himself assuming everything would work out, in the end, that the boys were here and so was their conductor. Yet, he knew that such traps were fatally dangerous. If anything, he should be even more terrified, cowering, even. But as he carried on his charade, plastering a transparent grin upon his mug, urging Christophe back upon his makeshift platform, he couldn’t help but embrace a hidden, unidentifiable relief. 

Shooting a despairing look, biting so hard into his lips Gregory wondered if blood would break, Christophe glanced around anxiously before grimacing once more at Gregory and turning to face his crowd of eager boys. They looked at him expectantly, instruments positioned and eyebrows raised. Even Stan, who held no instrument, seemed as though he were just as eager as the other boys. Dread twisted at Christophe’s insides.

Instinctively he paid Gregory another look. He was beaming. Christophe allowed himself to analyze everything he could as a means of reassurance, pathetic as it probably was. His entrancing* blue eyes glinted reassuringly at him. A stray golden curl hung loose over his forehead in juxtaposition to the rest of his tidy hair, likely strewn from the calamity of Christophe’s arrest. Christophe cringed as the urge to correct it back into place gnawed at his chest. If Gregory was at all anxious or doubtful of his abilities (or lack thereof), he certainly made no indication of it. That was yet another aspect that Christophe envied.

Deciding that he had ogled at Gregory enough, Gregory watched Christophe turn to face the group in front of him once more. There was not a sound except for the occasional, awkward shuffle through the room as the deafening silence prolonged its stay. The silence was broken when Gregory heard another sound.

“Think, man,” Christophe was muttering to himself, strained. Gregory suspected he was talking to himself, but the entire room could hear his flimsy affirmations. “Think!”

Recognizing that, unfortunate as it was, it was now or never, Christophe allowed one more apprehensive scowl at the band before him. 

He was slow and lacked any confidence. 

He raised his arms.

The threat of tar and feathers was immediately deemed a comfort. He wished he was being smothered in boiling hot tar and burning. It would be much less excruciating, painfully and embarrassingly, in comparison to the horrible cacophony that had just pierced the ears of everyone in the hall.

It was the sound of vultures scratching their scraggly beaks against a chalkboard. Tubas squeaked and trumpets screeched and cymbals clattered and Christophe’s mind was lost. He could say that it was, quite literally, one of the worst sounds he ever had the displeasure of hearing, much less conducting. 

“That’s my Bradley!”

A grown man had stood up in the audience, excitedly pointing to a petite blonde boy with a rather unfortunate haircut. The boy sounded like the rest of the lot to  
Christophe: loud, off-key, chiding. Playing loud notes that taunted “this is a fate worse than tar and feathers”. 

Regardless, Christophe barked a jaded, sarcastic “Wonderful, Bradley,” as he continued to flail his makeshift conductors around like a toy. He was a toy.

There was no confidence to be found in Christophe’s situation, even as he forced himself to maintain a somewhat professional demeanor. As professional as one could be in his circumstances. Raising his hackles and throwing Gregory a wince, cringing and shaking his head, he was amazed at Gregory’s ability to remain positive, shooting him a confident grin and a nod of encouragement. Though Christophe knew he was trying to be supportive (and, admittedly, it was slightly helping), it was like a slap in the face to see him urge on the sound of squeaking and crashing and gut wrenching discourse that Christophe was responsible for. He turned back around to look at his pupils.

The phenomenon, he could not place its name. A twisted, crude game of the domino-effect, perhaps. Somehow—how he could hear another proud parent stand up in the midst of such ear shattering noise was beyond him—he heard another voice exclaim all too proudly,

“And Kevin! That’s Kevin’s clarinet!”

Though he was receiving affirmations from the crowd of previous angry rabble rousers, Christophe wanted to slink away and dig himself a hole and hide refuge in it for a month or 5. He scrunched his eyes and face tight as more and more overly exuberant parents began to chime in with names of children Christophe did not recognize. Either he was doing something right, or River City had a collective population of tone-deaf citizens.

Gregory attempted to stay on the positive side of things (as positive as one could be), and the mere concept of citizens shouting the names of their beloved boys and cooing over them was a great sign, but he also found himself bewildered at the stark ignorance. Christophe was no director. He meant that in the most genuine way possible. He was half expecting a few ambitious people to even leap out of the crowd and attack Christophe themselves. But instead, everyone was absolutely captivated by seeing their brethren spitting into their instruments wearing loose fitting marching band clothes. 

Even Mayor Broflovski was gaping at Christophe, seemingly frozen. It did not look like he was as mesmerized as the rest of the crowd. 

And that was that. Christophe with an audible groan finished his masterpiece, and was greeted with an applause so loud he thought the window panes in the schoolroom would shatter, a noise that would be a pleasure to his ears considering what he had just gone through. 

Ecstatic parents dove to their grinning boys and embraced them tenderly as Christophe was left to stare at Broflovski from the podium. He was red-faced, which was understandable: he had wasted time and energy frothing at the mouth demanding where the band was, and now the man he had been itching to tar and feather was being deemed a hero. 

Sensing something behind him, Christophe turned to see Gregory standing behind the platform with a bright expression on his face. They didn’t say anything, just stared at each other as the commotion surrounding the two alienated them further. They met in an embrace.

In the end, Gerald waved dismissively at the two of them (well, flailed, still visibly perturbed at his loss) and Christophe never felt more relieved to find an excuse to get out of the man’s sight. 

He and Gregory both exited the hall, among the streams of chattering children and caregivers alike, standing on the steps of the entrance to the high school. The muggy summer air had never felt so liberating.

Resting against a cement pillar with his elbow, Christophe allowed himself to think—something that he had missed out on dearly. 

As cheesy as the thought was, he could spot his vision. 

Throughout the winding streets of River City marched a sea of polished, pompous red uniforms, celebrating their extrication by means of their instruments. Each individual person executed their song loud and clear, their war cry, their cry for freedom. It was a revolution. Spectators were just as exuberant to see the spectacle as they cheered and waved and carried on as they did. Each shout rejuvenated the band and strengthened the power of their thundering melody. 

And at the front, Christophe was their leader. Confidently he directed them, shepherding his rebellious spirits as he and the band made a collective effort to make River City known. Not for its stubbornness, but for its community. A community of hard-headed, contrary individuals boasting special chip-on-the-shoulder-attitude for the best. Something to truly be proud of. 

Joined by him was Gregory, of course. They lead their revolution with arms linked, both feeling equally confident as the helium in their chests and passion propelled them forward. 

And as Christophe looked into Gregory’s eyes as they stood on the steps of the high school, he knew that Gregory saw it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU for your patience. i had been spending so much time fretting over how i would end this that i just ended up procrastinating further and further because i never wanted it to end. THANK YOU for supporting me and reading my first “official” fic. it’s far from perfect and there are many errors, but i hope that you guys enjoyed this as much as i did. THANK YOU


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